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THE 



AMERICAN SPEAKER: 



A COLLECTION OF PIECES 



PROSE, POETRY, AND DIALOGUE ; 



FOR EXERCISES IN DECLAMATION, OR FOR OCCASIONAL 
READING IN SCHOOLS. 

BY CHARLES"NORTHEND, A. M., 

PRINCIPAL OF THE EPES SCHOOL, SALEM. MASS. ; AUTHOR OF SCHOOL 

DIALOGUES ; COMMON SCHOOL BOOK-KEEPING-, 

AND YOUNG COMPOSER. 



IMPROVED EDITION- 



SYRACUSE : 

PUBLISHED BY L. W. HALL, 

NEW-YORK: A.S.BARNES&CO. 

BOSTON : W. J. REYNOLDS & CO. 

i 1849. 



,v° V 



«^*v 



^ 



\ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 

CHARLES NORTHEND, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachasett 



% Stereotyped by 
HOBART & ROBBINS; 

NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDERY, 
BOSTON. 



PREFACE. 

Although the exercise of declamation has, of late, received 
more attention in schools than was formerly devoted to it, 
still it is true that less consequence is attached to it than its 
real importance demands. The advantages of frequent prac- 
tice in " speaking" are so many and so great, that it should 
receive more prominence, in all our schools. If scholars, at 
quite an early age, should be trained in the rehearsal of 
pieces, as a regular school duty, we think it would tend to 
produce a degree of freedom, force, and naturalness in read- 
ing, which could be obtained in no other way; and if the 
very favorable influence it exerts in promoting distinctness 
and energy, in this and other branches, was the only benefit 
to be derived from its practice, it would be entitled to particu- 
lar consideration. 

But there are other advantages resulting from the exercise ; 
and not the least in importance is that which comes from the 
habit of committing selections to memory, — a custom much 
less common than formerly, but none the less beneficial. 

The compiler of this volume has endeavored to make such 
a collection of pieces as will meet the wants of schools in the 
department under consideration. He has taken several selec- 
tions which have been long before the public, but their merit 
is such as to entitle them to a permanent rank among lessons 
for declamation. Some of the pieces possess interest only 
as adapted to occasional circumstances. It has been a lead- 
ing design of the compiler to exclude such pieces as breathe a 
highly martial spirit ; and while in some there may be a de- 
gree of humor, it will be found that most of them inculcate 
wholesome sentiments. A volume of similar size, composed 



IV PREFACE. 

exclusively of dialogues, will be published in a few weeks, in 
which will be inserted exercises of greater length and variety. 

It has not been deemed essential or important to insert 
rules and directions, because books, abounding in such rules, 
are already numerous, and because it is believed that the 
teacher can impart all needed instruction more clearly and 
efficiently than can be given by any printed directions. 

With the earnest hope that the book may be both accepta- 
ble and useful, the compiler commends it to the attention of 
his professional brethren, and to the use of those for whose 
special pleasure and benefit it has been prepared. 



Note. — The plates of the " American Speaker" were destroyed by 
fire soon after the publication of the third edition, and, in preparing a 
new set, the author has made several changes. The Dialogues in the 
present edition are entirely different from those in the former editions, 
and several pieces have been added to the Prose and Poetry parts. A 
few pieces of Poetry that were in the early editions are omitted in this on 
account of their length. 

Those desirous of obtaining the Dialogues as contained in the first 
edition, may find them all in the volume of " School Dialogues" recently 
prepared by the author of this work. 

Salem, Mass., March, 1849. 



CONTENTS. 



No. Authors. Pagb 

1. Liberty and Knowledge, D. Webster, .... 9 

2. Free Schools, the Glory of New England, . Story, 10 

3. The Nature of True Eloquence, D. Webster, . . . .11 

4. Conclusion of a Discourse at Plymouth, . " .... 12 

5. The American Indian, C. Sprague, .... 13 

6. Address of Brutus, Shakspeare, . . . .15 

7. One Century after Washington, Anon., 16 

8. The Contrast, " 17 

9. National Character, Mazcy, 18 

10. America — her Example, Phillips, 19 

11. Fate of the Indians, Story, 20 

12. Obligations to the Pilgrims, Whelpley, 21 

13. Public Instruction, D. P. Page, .... 23 

14. Adams and Jefferson, D. Webster, .... 24 

15. The Existence of God, Maxcy, 25 

16. Extract from a Centennial Discourse, . . Story, 26 

17. Responsibleness of America, " 27 

18. What Mind is Free ? Charming, 29 

19. Science, W. M. Rogers, ... 31 

20. Fidelity to the Federal Union, C. W. TJpham, ... 32 

21. The Fathers of Massachusetts, E.Everett, 33 

22. Valedictory Address, Putnam, 34 

23. The People in the Cause of Freedom, . . E. Everett, 35 

24. Knowledge and Enterprise, ....... " 37 

25. Power of Individual Character, C. W. TJpham, ... 38 

26. Industry necessary to Success, H. Ware, Jr., .... 40 

27. The Spirit of War, M. P. Braman, . . .41 

28. War and Peace, C. Sumner, 42 

29. Providential Agency, C. W. TJpham, ... 43 

30. Temperance, D. Kimball, . ... 45 

31. Popular Institutions, E. Everett, 46 

32. Reflections at Mount Auburn, S. Kettel, 47 

33. Man a Social Being, W.J). Northend, . . 48 

34. The Death of J. Q. Adams, W.P. Lunt, .... 50 

35. J. Q. Adams, « .... 51 

36. Motives for Action, E. Everett, 53 

37. Introductory for an Evening Exhibition, . P. H. Sweetser, ... 54 

38. The Province of Faith, '. . E. Betcher, 55 

39. Introductory for an Evening Exhibition, 56 

40. The Memory of the Good, H. Humphrey, ... 57 

41. The Mother Land, . . . E. Everett, 58 

42. History, Jared Sparks, .... 60 

1* 



VI CONTENTS. 

No. Authors. Page 

43. Individual Energy and Action, C. W. Upham, . . 61 

44. An Appeal in Behalf of Clinton, N. Cleaveland, ... 63 

45. Death of Adams and Jefferson, E. Everett, .... 64 

46. The Indians, H. Humphrey, ... 65 

47. An Introductory Address, 66 

48. The Effects of Diversified Employments, . R. Choate, .... 68 

49. Our Duty as Citizens, E. Everett, .... 69 

50. Our Obligations, Knowles, 71 

51. The Education of the Heart, G. F. Chever, ... 72 

52. The Country of Washington, D. Webster, .... 74 

53. Individual Action, E. Everett, .... 75 

54. The Man of Expedients, . . S. Gilman, .... 76 

55. Woman, John Neal, .... 79 

56. Self-Conceit, Columbian Orator, . 81 

57. Keeping up Appearances, L. Withington, . . 84 

58. Foundation of National Character, . . • .E.Everett, . . . . 86 

59. The Ruling Passion, H. Mann, 87 

60. Why do not our Schools accomplish more ? Wm. G. Crosby, . . 89 

61. The Mayflower, E.Everett, .... 90 

62. Motives to Moral Action, P. W. Chandler, . . 92 

63. Educational Interests of New York, . . .H.Mann, 93 

64. The Year 1776, N. Cleaveland, ... 94 

65. The States in Relation to Education, . . .Ira Mayhem, ... 95 

66. Popular Education, Wm. G. Crosby, . . 96 

67. Indian Character, /. Sparks, 98 

68. The Spirit of New England, J. S. J. Gardiner, . 99 

69. Intemperance, D. Kimball, .... 100 

70. Progress of Liberty, C. W. Upham, . . .102 

71. Events of the Revolution, /. Sparks, 103 

72. Moral and Physical Force, C. W. Upham, ... 104 

73. Speech of Cornplanter, 105 

74. Speech of Black Hawk, 106 

75. Speech of Red Jacket, 108 

76. Story and Speech of Logan, 109 



PART II. — POETRY. 

1. Psalm of Life, Longfellow, .... Ill 

2. Ambition, False and True, Anon., 112 

3. On Visiting a Scene of Childhood, . . . . Blackwood's Mag., .112 

4. A Hint on Street Manners, O. W. Holmes, . .113 

5. The American Eagle, John Neal, .... 114 

6. Speed the Prow, James Montgomery, .115 

7. Prologue, Anon., 116 

8. Cleon and I, Chas. Mackay, . . .117 

9. The Family Meeting, C. Sprague, .... 118 

10. Passing Away, Miss Jew sbury, . . .119 

11. New England, J. G. Whittier, . . 120 

12. To an Indian Gold Coin, Ley den, 122 

13. Indian Names, Mrs. Sigourney, • . 123 

14. The Immortal Mind, Byron, 124 



CONTENTS. Vn 

No. Authors. Page 



15. The Poor and the Rich, J. R. Lowell, 

16. The Landing of the Pilgrims, Mrs. Hemans, 

17. Light for All. Chambers 1 Journal 

IS. To the American Flag, J. R. Drake, 

19. Napoleon at Rest, . . . John Pierpont, 

20. The Three Elack Crows, Birom, . . . 

21. Contented John, Jane Taylor, . 

22. An Acre of Corn Anon., . . . 

23. The Old Arm Chair Miss E. Cook, 

24. The Poor Man's Hvmn CD. Stuart, 

25. Labor '. Miss C. F. Orne. 



26. The Crop of Acorns, Youth's Companion, . 138 

27. Lines for an Exhibition, H. S. Osborne, . . . 139 

28. Our Country, Pabodie, 140 

29. The New Englander among the Alps, . . R. C. Waterston, . . 141 

30. The Dilatory Scholar, C Gilman, .... 142 

31. A Name in "'the Sand, H F. Gould, ... 143 

32. Report of an Adjudged Case, &c, .... Cowper, 143 

33. Philip of Mount Hope . . . . J. 0. Sargent, . . . 144 

34. The Fields of War, I. MLellan, Jr., . . 145 

35. The Pilgrims, P. H. Sweetser, . . 147 

36. New England's Dead, I. WLellan, Jr., . . 147 

37. The Flight of Xerxes, Miss Jewsbury , . . .149 

38. A Centennial Hymn, Pierpont, ..... 150 

39. Yankee Ships, J. T. Fields, .... 151 

40. Plea for the Red Man, C. Sprague, .... 152 

41. A Scene in a Private Mad-House, .... M. G. Lewis, . . .154 

42. " Excelsior," Longfellow, .... 155 

43. The Battle of Life, E. C. Jones, .... 157 

44. The Mariners, Park Benjamin, . . 157 

45. Plea of the Indian, Anon., 158 

46. The Removal, " 159 

47. The Cold-water Man, J. G. Saxe, .... 160 

48. The Grave of the Indian Chief, Bryant, 162 

49. Universal Freedom, H. Ware, Jr., . . . 162 

50. New England, Mrs. E. T. Daniels, 163 



51. The Oaken Bucket, S. Woodworth, 

52. The Thriving Family — the States, . . . Mrs. Sigourney, 

53. The Poor Man, Anon., .... 

54. The Voice of Love, Isaac F. Shepard, 

55. The Coming of the Pilgrims, Charles Sprague, 

56. Old Ironsides, O. W. Holmes, 

57. Dirge of Alaric, E. Everett, . 

58. The Farmer's Song, Anon 

59. Epilogue, " ... 

60. Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, Goldsmith, . 

61. The Life-Boat O. Oglethorpe, 

62. The Steamboat, O. W. Holmes, 

63. The Inquiry, Anon., . . . 

64. The Midnight Mail, . . . . '. H. F. Gould, 

65. The Stranger and his Friend, J. Montgomery, 



125 
127 
128 

, 129 
131 
132 

, 133 
134 
135 
136 

, 137 



165 
166 
167 
168 
169 
172 
173 
175 
176 
176 
177 
179 
180 
181 
183 



66. Hope, W. D. Northend, . 184 



VIII CONTENTS. 

No. Authors. Page 

67. Freedom, L. Dame, 185 

68. The Orphan's Song, London Magazine, . 186 

. 187 
. 190 
. 191 
. 193 
. 195 
. 195 
. 197 
. 197 
. 198 
. 199 
.200 
.201 
.202 
.203 
. 204 
.205 
.206 
.208 
. 208 
.209 
. 210 
.211 
.213 



69. Two Hundred Years Ago, G. Mellen, 

70. A Legend, J. G. Whittier, 

71. The Happy Home, Knickerbocker, , 

72. Old Massachusetts, " 

73. Look Aloft, Jona. Lawrence, 

74. Press On, Park Benjamin, 

75. All's for the Best, Tapper, . . , 

76. The Flower, G. L. Streeter, , 

77. Upward and Onward, Dollar Mag., 

78. All is Action, /. Hagen, . 

79. Try — Keep Trying, . Anon., . . 

80. The World as it is, " 

81. Philosophy of Endurance, C. Mackay, 

82. The Storm, J E. Dow, 

83. The Letter from Home, J. G. Lyons, 

84. Lines on the Loss of a Ship, John Malcom, 

85. Room Enough for All, Saturday Rambler 

86. To Young Students, Miss Embury, 

87. The Child at Play, Anon., . . 

88. Be Kind, " 

89. Speak Gently, " 

90. Life's Companions, C. Mackay, 

91. Art, C. Sprague 

92. To the Falls of Niagara, J. G. C. Brainard, .214 



PART III. — DIALOGUES. 

1. Perseverance, 215 

2. The Useful and the Ornamental, .... Mrs. Farrar, , . .217 

3. On Pre-judging, N. Peine, .... 219 

4. The Carious Instrument, Jane Taylor, .... 223 

5. The California Gold Country, Fitch Poole, .... 226 

6. True Virtue will prevail, Fenelon, 229 

7. The Sailor's Mother, Southey, 232 

8. The Alderman's Funeral, " 235 

9. Lessons in Etiquette, S. Knowles, .... 238 

10. Scene from the " Merchant of Venice," . . Shakspeare, . . . .241 

11. The Adopted Child, Mrs. Remans, ... 245 

12. The Better Land, " ... 246 

13. Scene from the " Little Merchants," . . . Miss Edgeworth, . . 247 

14. Scene from " As you Like It," Shakspeare, . . . .250 

15. Fortune Telling, Miss Fletcher, . . . 251 

16. About School, E. Sutton, 254 

17. The Doctor and his Patient, 256 

18. A Way to " Raise the Wind," Caleb Peirce, ... 259 

19. On Leaving School, 263 



THE 

AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE I. 
LIBERTY AND KNOWLEDGE. 

This lovely land, this glorious liberty, these benign 
institutions, — the dear purchase of our fathers, — are 
ours ; — ours to enjoy, ours to preserve, ours to trans- 
mit. Generations past, and generations to come, hold 
us responsible for this sacred trust. Our fathers, from 
behind, admonish us with their anxious parental voices ; 
posterity calls out to us, from the bosom of the future ; 
the world turns hither, with its solicitous eye ; all, all 
conjure us to act wisely and faithfully in this relation 
which we sustain. We can never, indeed, pay the debt 
which is upon us ; but by virtue, by morality, by reli- 
gion, by the cultivation of every good principle, and 
every good habit, we may hope to enjoy the blessing 
through our day, and to leave it unimpaired to our 
children. 

Let us feel deeply how much of what we are, and 
what we possess, we owe to this liberty, and these 
institutions of government. Nature has indeed given 
us a soil which yields bounteously to the hand of indus- 
try ; the mighty and fruitful ocean is before us, and the 
skies over our heads shed health and vigor. But what 
are lands, and seas, and skies, to civilized man, without 
knowledge, without morals, without religious culture ? 
and how can these be enjoyed, in all their excellence, 
but under the protection of wise institutions and a free 
government ? 



10 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

There is not one of us, who does not at this moment, 
and at every moment, experience, in his own condition, 
and in the condition of those most near and dear to him, 
the influence and benefits of this liberty, and of these 
institutions. Let us, then, acknowledge the blessing; 
let us feel it deeply and powerfully ; let us cherish a 
strong affection for it, and resolve to maintain and per- 
petuate it. The blood of our fathers, — let it not have 
been shed in vain : the great hope of posterity, — let it 
not be blasted! 



EXERCISE II. 

THE GLORY OF NEW ENGLAND. 

I know not, my friends, what more munificent dona- 
tion any government can bestow, than by providing 
instruction at the public expense, not as a scheme of 
charity, but of municipal policy. If a private person 
deserves the applause of all good men, who founds a 
single hospital or college, how much more are they 
entitled to the appellation of public benefactors, who by 
the side of every church in every village plant a school 
of letters ! Other monuments of the art and genius of 
man may perish ; but these, from their very nature, seem, 
as far as human foresight can go, absolutely immortal. 

The triumphal arches of other days have fallen ; the 
sculptured columns have crumbled into dust : the tem- 
ples of taste and religion have sunk into decay ; the 
pyramids themselves seem but mighty sepulchres has- 
tening to the same oblivion to which the dead they 
cover long since passed. But here, every successive 
generation becomes a living memorial of our public 
schools, and a living example of their excellence. 

Never, never may this glorious institution be aban- 
doned or betrayed, by the weakness of its friends, or the 
power of its adversaries. It can scarcely be abandoned 
or betrayed, while New England remains free, and her 
representatives are true to their trust. It must forever 
count in its defence a majority of all those who ought 
to influence public affairs by their virtues or their tal- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 11 

ents ; for it must be that here they first felt the divinity 
of knowledge stir within them. 

What consolation can be higher, what reflection 
prouder, than the thought, that, in weal and in woe, 
our children are under the public guardianship, and 
may here gather the fruits of that learning which ripens 
for eternity ? 



EXERCISE m. 
THE NATURE OF TRUE ELOQUENCE. 

When public bodies are to be addressed on moment- 
ous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and 
strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, 
further than it is connected with high intellectual and 
moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, 
are the qualities which produce conviction. True elo- 
quence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot 
be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for 
it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may 
be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. 
It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occa- 
sion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of 
declamation, all may aspire after it ; they cannot reach 
it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a 
fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic 
fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. 

The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- 
ments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and 
disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their 
wives, their children, and their country, hang on the 
decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, 
rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. 
Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as 
in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism 
is eloquent ; then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear 
conception, out-running the deductions of logic, the high 
purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking 
on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every 
feature, and urging the whole man onward, right on- 



12 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

ward, to his object — this, this is eloquence; or, rather, 
it is something greater and higher than all eloquence, 
— it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 






EXERCISE IV. 
CONCLUSION OF A DISCOURSE AT PLYMOUTH. 






The hours of this day are rapidly flying, and this 
occasion will soon be passed. Neither we nor our chil- 
dren can expect to behold its return. They are in the 
distant regions of futurity, they exist only in the all- 
creating power of God, who shall stand here, a hundred 
years hence, to trace, through us, their descent from the 
Pilgrims, and to survey, as we have now surveyed, the 
progress of their country during the lapse of a century. 
We would anticipate their concurrence with us in our 
sentiments of deep regard for our common ancestors. 
We would anticipate and partake the pleasure with 
which they will then recount the steps of New England's 
advancement. On the morning of that day, although it 
will not disturb us in our repose, the voice of acclama- 
tion and gratitude, commencing on the rock of Plym- 
outh, shall be transmitted through millions of the sons 
of the Pilgrims, till it lose itself in the murmurs of the 
Pacific seas. 

We would leave, for the consideration of those who 
shall then occupy our places, some proof that we hold 
the blessings transmitted from our fathers in just estima- 
tion ; some proof of our attachment to the cause of good 
government, and of civil and religious liberty; some 
proof of a sincere and ardent desire to promote every- 
thing which may enlarge the understandings and im- 
prove the hearts of men. And when, from the long dis- 
tance of an hundred years, they shall look back upon 
us, they shall know, at least, that we possessed affec- 
tions, which, running backward, and warming with 
gratitude for what our ancestors have done for our 
happiness, run forward also to our posterity, and meet 
them with cordial salutation, ere yet they have arrived 
on the shore of Being. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 13 

Advance, then, ye future generations! We would 
hail you as you rise in your long succession, to fill the 
places which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of 
existence where we are passing, and soon shall have 
passed, our own human duration. We bid you wel- 
come to this pleasant land of the Fathers. We bid you 
welcome to the healthful skies and the verdant fields of 
New England. We greet your accession to the great 
inheritance we have enjoyed. We welcome you to the 
blessings of good government and religious liberty. We 
welcome you to the treasures of science and the delights 
of learning. We welcome you to the transcendant 
sweets of domestic life, to the happiness of kindred, and 
parents, and children. We welcome you to the immeas- 
urable blessings of rational existence, the immortal hope 
of Christianity, and the light of everlasting Truth. 



EXERCISE V. 
THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled 
with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the 
rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug 
his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race 
of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your 
heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer ; gaz- 
ing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian 
lover wooed his dusky mate. 

Here the wigwam-blaze beamed on the tender and 
helpless, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. 
Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, 
and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky 
shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the 
bloody grapple, the defying death-song, all were here : 
and when the tiger strife was over, here curled the 
smoke of peace. 

Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark 
bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He 
had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but 
2 



14 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The 
poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but 
the God of the universe he acknowledged in everything 
around. 

He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind 
his lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that flamed on 
him from his mid-day throne ; in the flower that snapped 
in the morning breeze; in the lofty pine, that defied a 
thousand whirlwinds ; in the timid warbler, that never 
left its native grove ; in the fearless eagle, whose untired 
pinion was wet in clouds ; in the worm that crawled 
at his feet; and in his own matchless form, glowing 
with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious source 
he bent, in humble, though blind adoration. 

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean 
came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. 
The former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in 
the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have 
changed the character of a great continent, and blotted 
forever, from its face, a whole peculiar people. Art has 
usurped the bowers of nature, and the anointed children 
of education have been too powerful for the tribes of 
the ignorant. 

Here and there, a stricken few remain : but how 
unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors ! 
The Indian, of falcon glance, and lion bearing, the 
theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic 
tale, is gone ! and his degraded offspring crawl upon 
the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how 
miserable is man when the foot of the conqueror is on 
his neck. 

As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their 
cabins are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since 
gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to 
the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the 
distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting 
sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which 
is pressing them away ; they must soon hear the roar of 
the last wave, which will settle over them forever. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 15 



EXERCISE VI. 

ADDRESS OF BRUTUS, JUSTIFYING HIS ASSASSINATION OF 
CjESAR. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my 
cause; and be silent that you may hear. Believe me 
for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, 
that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom ; 
and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. 
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of 
Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was 
no less than his. If then that friend demand why 
Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer, — not 
that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. 

Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, 
than that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen? As 
Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, 
I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honor him ; but, as 
he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his 
love; joy, for his fortune; honor, for his valor; and 
death, for his ambition. Who 's here so base, that would 
be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. 
Who 5 s here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If 
any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who 's here so 
vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for 
him have I offended. I pause for a reply. 

None ! Then none have I offended. I have done no 
more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The ques- 
tion of his death is enrolled in the capitol ; his glory not 
extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences 
enforced, for which he suffered death. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; 
who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive 
— the benefit of his dying — a place in the common- 
wealth; as which of you shall not? With this I de- 
part ; that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, 
I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please 
my country to need my death. 



16 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE VII. 
ONE CENTURY AFTER WASHINGTON. 

Gentlemen, we are at the point of a century from the 
birth of Washington ; and what a century it has been ! 
During its course, the human mind has seemed to pro- 
ceed with a sort of geometric velocity, accomplishing, for 
human intelligence, and human freedom, more than had 
been done in fives or tens of centuries preceding. Wash- 
ington stands at the commencement of a new era, as 
well as at the head of a new world. A century from 
the birth of Washington has changed the world. The 
country of Washington has been the theatre on which 
a great part of that change has been wrought; and 
Washington himself a principal agent by which it has 
been accomplished. His age and his country are equal- 
ly full of wonders ! and of both he is the chief. 

Washington had attained his manhood when that 
spark of liberty was struck out in his own country, 
which has since kindled into a flame, and shot its beams 
over the earth. In the flow of a century from his birth, 
the world has changed in science, in arts, in the extent 
of commerce, in the improvement of navigation, and in 
all that relates to the civilization of man. But it is the 
spirit of human freedom, the new elevation of individual 
man, in his moral, social, and political character, lead- 
ing the whole long train of other improvements, which 
has most remarkably distinguished the era. 

It has assumed a new character ; it has raised itself 
from beneath governments to a participation in govern- 
ments; it has mixed moral and political objects with 
the daily pursuits of individual men ; and, with a free- 
dom and strength before altogether unknown, it has ap- 
plied to these objects the whole power of the human un- 
derstanding. It has been the era, in short, when the 
social principle has triumphed over the feudal principle ; 
when society has maintained its rights against military 
power, and established, on foundations never hereafter 
to be shaken, its competency to govern itself. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 17 

EXERCISE VIII. 
THE CONTRAST. 

Turn your eyes upon ancient Athens, the boast and 
pride of history : there you will behold, on all sides, vast 
monuments of taste, genius, and elegance. Look also 
at imperial Rome — I mean as she stood in all her great- 
ness and glory ; — you see the majesty of the human in- 
tellect unfolded, you see her temples, her palaces, and 
her monuments of wealth and power. But do you see 
any hospitals for the sick ? — any asylums for the deaf 
and the dumb, the blind and the aged, the fatherless 
and the widow, or any for the outcast of the land ? The 
whole empire shows not one. 

How, then, will those renowned cities of the olden 
world and olden times compare with some of the mod- 
ern towns of the new world? Look at Boston, New 
York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore: look even at many 
of the little villages in this new country. In these you 
may see temples and monuments of art and taste ; but 
do you not, also, see hospitals, infirmaries, asylums, poor- 
houses, bettering-houses, refuge places, penitentiaries, 
quiet retreats, and snug harbors, open for the reception 
of every condition of suffering humanity ? 

What has caused this broad difference between those 
old cities and our young towns? — between the people 
of the East, and the people of the West ? — between an- 
cient times, and modern times? The Athenians were a 
splendid people, learned in laws, philosophy, and the 
sciences; but they were a pagan people; they wor- 
shipped a host of gods and goddesses, whose very names 
are too ridiculous to be recorded. 

The Romans, in their primitive state, had no higher 
objects of veneration than the Athenians ; and besides 
this, they were learned only in the arts of war, and the 
means of human destruction. And even when a pure 
religion struggled to the ascendency in the empire, it 
was soon corrupted to the most gross and licentious pur- 
poses. Even down to the present period, the senseless 
rites and images mingled with it dishonor the name of 
2* 



18 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

religion ; they mock the sanctity of its professors, and 
rest, like an incubus, upon the spirits of millions. 

The same religion in the new world, preserved in its 
pristine purity, and honored in its efficacy, has put a 
new face on all that belongs to life. It heals dissen- 
sions; loves peace and good will to men; beats the 
sword into pruning hooks ; spreads over the face of the 
world the works of benevolence ; rears monuments of 
charity; delights in deeds of kindness, and constantly 
seeks the happiness of all. 



EXERCISE IX. 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 

The loss of a firm national character, or the degrada- 
tion of a nation's honor, is the inevitable prelude to her 
destruction. Behold the once proud fabric of a Roman 
empire, — an empire carrying its arts and arms into 
every part of the eastern continent; the monarchs of 
mighty kingdoms dragged at the wheels of her triumphal 
chariots ; her eagle waving over the ruins of desolated 
countries. Where is her splendor, her wealth, her power, 
her glory? Extinguished forever. Her mouldering 
temples, the mournful vestiges of her former grandeur, 
afford a shelter to her muttering monks. Where are her 
statesmen, her sages, her philosophers, her orators, her 
generals ? Go to their solitary tombs and inquire. She 
lost her national character, and her destruction followed. 
The ramparts of her national pride were broken down, 
and Vandalism desolated her classic fields. 

Such, the warning voice of antiquity, the example 
of all republics, proclaim may be our fate. But let us 
no longer indulge these gloomy anticipations. The 
commencement of our liberty presages the dawn of a 
brighter period to the world. That bold, enterprising 
spirit, which conducted our heroes to peace and safety, 
and gave us a lofty rank amid the empires of the world, 
still animates the bosoms of their descendants. Look 
back to that moment when they unbarred the dungeons 
of the slave and dashed his fetters to the earth ; when 
£jie sword of a Washington leaped from its scabbard to 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 19 

revenge the slaughter of our countrymen. Place their 
example before you. Let the sparks of their veteran 
wisdom flash across your minds, and the sacred altars 
of your liberty, crowned with immortal honors, rise be- 
fore you. Relying on the virtue, the courage, the patri- 
otism, and the strength of our country, we may expect 
our national character will become more energetic, our 
citizens more enlightened, and we may hail the age as 
not far distant, when will be heard, as the proudest ex- 
clamation of man, — I am an American ! 



EXERCISE X. 
AMERICA HER EXAMPLE. 

Americans ! you have a country vast in extent, and 
embracing all the varieties of the most salubrious climes ; 
held not by charters wrested from unwilling kings, but 
the bountiful gift of the Author of nature. The exuber- 
ance of your population is daily divesting the gloomy 
wilderness of its rude attire, and splendid cities rise to 
cheer the dreary desert. You have a government de- 
servedly celebrated "as giving the sanctions of law to 
the precepts of reason; " presenting, instead of the rank 
luxuriance of natural licentiousness, the corrected sweets 
of civil liberty. You have fought the battles of freedom, 
and enkindled that sacred flame which now glows with 
vivid fervor through the greatest empire in Europe. 

We indulge the sanguine hope, that her equal laws 
and virtuous conduct will hereafter afford examples of 
imitation to all surrounding nations. That the blissful 
period will soon arrive when man shall be elevated to 
his primitive character; when illuminated reason and 
regulated liberty shall once more exhibit him in the im- 
age of his Maker ; when all the inhabitants of the globe 
shall be freemen and fellow-citizens, and patriotism it- 
self be lost in universal philanthropy. Then shall vol- 
umes of incense incessantly roll from altars inscribed to 
liberty. Then shall the innumerable varieties of the 
human race unitedly " worship in her sacred temple, 
whose pillars shall rest on the remotest corners of the 
earth, and whose arch will be the vault of heaven." 



20 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XI. 
FATE OF THE INDIANS. 

There is, indeed, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, 
much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the 
sobriety of our judgment ; much which may be urged to 
excuse their own atrocities; much in their characters 
which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What 
can be more melancholy than their history ? By a law 
of their nature, they seem destined to a slow, but sure 
extinction. Everywhere, at the approach of the white 
man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their 
footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, 
and they are gone forever. They pass mournfully by 
us, and they return no more. 

Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and 
the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from 
Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to 
the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory 
and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the 
glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk 
whistled through the forests; and the hunter's trace and 
the dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their 
lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The 
young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers 
played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with 
warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down ; but 
they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer 
regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home pre- 
pared for the brave, beyond the western skies. 

Braver men never lived ; truer men never drew the 
bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, 
and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. 
They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hard- 
ships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had 
the virtues also. They were true to their country, their 
friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, 
neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance 
was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were uncon- 
querable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not 
on this side of the grave, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 21 

But where are they? Where are the villages, and 
warriors, and youth ; the sachems and the tribes ; the 
hunters and their families? They have perished. They 
are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone 
done the mighty work. No ; nor famine, nor war. 
There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which 
hath eaten into their heart-cores ; a plague, which the 
touch of the white man communicated ; a poison which 
betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the 
Atlantic fan not a single region which they may now 
call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of the 
race are preparing for their journey beyond the Missis- 
sippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, 
the helpless, the women, and the warriors, "few and 
faint, yet fearless still," 

The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The 
smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They 
move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man 
is upon their heels, for terror or despatch ; but they heed 
him not. They turn to take a last look of their deserted 
villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of 
their fathers. They shed no tears ; they utter no cries ; 
they heave no groans. There is something in their 
hearts which passes speech. There is something in 
their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard 
necessity, which stifles both ; which chokes all utter- 
ance; which has no aim or method. It is courage 
absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. 
Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal 
stream. It shall never be repassed by them — no, never ! 
Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable 
gulf. They know and feel, that there is for them still 
one remove further, not distant, nor unseen. It is to the 
general burial-ground of the race. 



EXERCISE XII. 
OBLIGATIONS TO THE PILGRIMS. 

Let us go back to the rock where the Pilgrims first 
stood, and look abroad upon this wide and happy land, 



22 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

so full of their lineal or adopted sons, and repeat the 
question — to whom do we owe it, that "the wilderness 
has thus been turned into a fruitful field, and the desert 
has become as the garden of the Lord?" To whom do 
we owe it, under an all- wise Providence, that this nation, 
so miraculously born, is now contributing with such 
effect to the welfare of the human family, by aiding the 
march of mental and moral improvement, and giving an 
example to the nations of what it is to be pious, intelli- 
gent, and free? To whom do we owe it, that with us 
the great ends of the social compact are accomplished to 
a degree of perfection never before realized; that the 
union of public power and private liberty is here exhib- 
ited in a harmony so singular and perfect as to allow 
the might of political combination to rest upon the basis 
of individual virtue, and to call into exercise, by the 
very freedom which such a union gives, all the powers 
that contribute to national prosperity ? 

To whom do we owe it, that the pure and powerful 
light of the gospel is now shed abroad over these coun- 
tries, and is rapidly gaining upon the darkness of the 
western world; — that the importance of religion to the 
temporal welfare of men, and to the permanence of wise 
institutions, is here beginning to be felt in its just meas- 
ure; — that the influence of a divine revelation is not 
here, as in almost every other section of Christendom, 
wrested to purposes of worldly ambition ; — that the 
holy Bible is not sealed from the eyes of those for whom 
it was intended, and the best charities and noblest pow- 
ers of the soul degraded by the terrors of a dark and 
artful superstition? 

To whom do we owe it, that in this favored land the 
gospel of the grace of God has best displayed its power 
to bless humanity, by uniting the anticipations of a bet- 
ter world with the highest interests and pursuits of this; 
— by carrying its merciful influence into the very busi- 
ness and bosoms of men ; — by making the ignorant wise 
and the miserable happy; — by breaking the fetters of 
the slave, and teaching the "babe and suckling" those 
simple and sublime truths which give to life its dignity 
and virtue, and fill immortality with hope ? To whom 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 23 

do we owe all this? Doubtless, to the Plymouth Pil- 
grims ! Happily did one of these fearless exiles exclaim, 
in view of all that was past, and of the blessing, and 
honor, and glory, that was yet to come, "God hath 
sifted three kingdoms, that he might gather the choice 
grain, and plant it in the wilderness." 



EXERCISE XIII. 
PUBLIC INSTRUCTION. 

Among all the various blessings bequeathed to us by 
the ancestors of New England — if we except religious 
freedom — none has stronger claims for our attachment, 
or demands more imperiously our warmest gratitude, 
than their early institution of the Common School Sys- 
tem. As if endowed with wisdom beyond the age in 
which they lived, and with a liberality far above the 
people from whom they came out, they were the first to 
declare — if not the first to entertain — the important 
doctrine, that religious and civil liberty, in the broadest 
sense, could have a permanent foundation only in a 
general diffusion of intelligence in the whole community. 
They were the very first men to declare positively 
against an exclusive aristocracy in mental cultivation ; 
the first to open freely and fully to all classes and to 
both sexes the fountains of knowledge ; the first to es- 
tablish and maintain, at the public expense, wherever 
they felled the forest and founded a settlement — second 
in their affections only to the ordinances of religion— the 
means of public instruction. 

And, perhaps, it is no censurable pride in us that we 
fondly — and, it may be, somewhat boastfully — repeat 
the fact, that the spot which is now the site of the city 
of Salem, in the county of Essex and commonwealth of 
Massachusetts, was the locality of the very first public 
free school the world ever saw ! 

To us, then, who are met within the limits of a state 
so honorably distinguished in the annals of human im- 
provement; to us, who are the descendants of a New 
England ancestry, and have been nurtured amid New 






24 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



England institutions ; standing as we now do between 
the illustrious dead, on the one hand, and the rising 
progeny of such a noble parentage, on the other; charged 
as we are with the responsible office of ministering with 
pure hands and devoted hearts to the intellectual growth 
of a rising multitude, and of perpetuating to others yet 
to come the blessings we have richly received, — it can- 
not be uninteresting to pause a few moments, by the 
way, and inquire what improvements have been intro- 
duced, and what advancement we have made, in an 
enterprise so worthy of its founders, and so necessary to 
our very existence as a free and self-governing people. 



EXERCISE XIV. 
ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 

Adams and Jefferson are no more ! On our fiftieth 
anniversary, the great day of national jubilee, in the 
very hour of public rejoicing, in the midst of echoing 
and reechoing voices of thanksgiving, while their own 
names were on all tongues, they took their flight, to- 
gether, to the world of spirits. 

Adams and Jefferson are no more ! As human beings, 
indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 
1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence ; no 
more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the govern- 
ment; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged 
and venerable objects of admiration and regard. 

They are no more ! They are dead ! But how little 
is there of the great and good which can die ! To their 
country they yet live, and live forever. They live in 
all that perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth ; 
in the recorded proofs of their own great actions — in 
the offspring of their intellect — in the deep engraved 
lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage 
of mankind. They live in their example; and they 
live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which 
their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now 
exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of 
men, not only in their own country, but throughout the 






THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 25 

civilized world. A superior and commanding human 
intellect, a truly great man, when Heaven vouchsafes 
so rare a gift, is not a temporary flame, burning bright 
for a while, and then expiring, giving place to returning 
darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well 
as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common 
mass of human mind ; so that when it glimmers, in its 
own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night fol- 
lows, but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from 
the potent contact of its own spirit. 

No two men now live, perhaps it may be doubted 
whether two men have ever lived, in one age, who, 
more than those we now commemorate, have impressed 
their own sentiments, in regard to politics and govern- 
ment, on mankind; infused their own opinions more 
deeply into the opinions of others, or given a more last- 
ing direction to the current of human thoughts. Their 
work doth not perish with them. The tree which they 
assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and 
protect it no longer ; for it has struck its root deep ; it 
has sent them to the very centre ; no storm, not of force 
to burst the orb, can overturn it ; its branches spread 
wide ; they stretch their protecting arms broader and 
broader ; and its top is destined to reach the heavens. 



EXERCISE XV. 
THE EXISTENCE OF GOD. 

A firm belief in the existence of God will heighten 
all the enjoyments of life, and, by conforming our hearts 
to His will, will secure the approbation of a good con- 
science, and inspire us with the hopes of a blessed im- 
mortality. Never be tempted to disbelieve the existence 
of God, when everything around you proclaims it in a 
language too plain not to be understood. Never cast 
your eyes on creation, without having your souls ex- 
panded with this sentiment, — " There is a God." 

When you survey this globe of earth, with all its ap- 
pendages ; when you behold it inhabited by numberless 
ranks of creatures, all moving in their proper spheres, 
3 



26 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

all verging to their proper ends, all animated by the 
same great source of life, all supported at the same great 
bounteous table ; when you behold, not only the earth, 
but the ocean, and the air, swarming with living crea- 
tures, all happy in their situation; when you behold 
yonder sun darting an effulgent blaze of glory over the 
heavens, garnishing mighty worlds, and waking ten 
thousand songs of praise ; when you behold unnumbered 
systems diffused through vast immensity, clothed in 
splendor, and rolling in majesty; when you behold these 
things, your affections will rise above all the vanities of 
time; your full souls will struggle with ecstasy, and 
your reason, passions, and feelings, all united, will rush 
up to the skies, with a devout acknowledgment of the 
existence, power, wisdom, and goodness of God. Let 
us behold Him, let us wonder, let us praise and adore. 
These things will make us happy. 



EXERCISE XVI. 
EXTRACT FROM A CENTENNIAL DISCOURSE AT SALEM, MASS. 

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last, 
experiment of self-government by the people. We have 
begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious 
nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has 
never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our 
constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or 
luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have 
been from the beginning; simple, hardy, intelligent, 
accustomed to self-government and self-respect. The 
Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. 

Within our own territory, stretching through many 
degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of 
many products, and many means of independence. The 
government is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. 
Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What 
fairer prospects of success could be presented? What 
means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? 
What more is necessary, than for the people to preserve 
what they themselves have created ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 27 

Already has the age caught the spirit of our institu- 
tions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed 
the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the 
life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of 
France, and the low lands of Holland. It has touched 
the philosophy of Germany and the North, and, moving 
onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of 
her better days. 

Can it be that America, under such circumstances, 
can betray herself! that she is to be added to the cata- 
logue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is. 
11 They were, but they are not ! " Forbid it, my coun- 
trymen ; forbid it, Heaven ! 

I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ances- 
tors, by the dear ashes which repose in this precious 
soil, by all you are, and all you hope to be ; resist every 
project of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your 
liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, 
or smother your public schools, or extinguish your 
system of public instruction. ^ * * ^ * =* We, 
who are now assembled here must soon be gathered to 
the congregation of other days. The time of our depart- 
ure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the 
theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs ! May 
he, who at the distance of another century shall stand 
here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, 
happy, and virtuous people ! May he have reason to 
exult as we do ! May he, with all the enthusiasm of 
truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his 
country, 

" Zealous, yet modest ; innocent, tnough free ; 
Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms ! " 



EXERCISE XVII. 
RESPONSIBLENESS OF AMERICA. 



When we reflect on what has been, and is, how is it 
possible not to feel a profound sense of the responsible- 



28 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

ness of this republic to all future ages ! What vast 
motives press upon us for lofty efforts ! What brilliant 
prospects invite our enthusiasm ! What solemn warn- 
ings at once demand our vigilance, and moderate our 
confidence ! 

The old world has already revealed to us, in its 
unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own 
marvellous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, 
lovely Greece, "the land of scholars and the nurse of 
arms," where sister republics in fair processions chanted 
the praises of liberty and the gods, — where and what 
is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has 
bound her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The 
last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a 
ruthless soldiery ; the fragments of her columns and her 
palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruin. She fell 
not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were 
united at Thermopylae and Marathon ; and the tide of 
her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was 
conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands 
of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the 
work of destruction. It was already done, by her own 
corruptions, banishments and dissensions. 

Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the 
rising and setting sun, — where and what is she? The 
eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, 
noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, 
and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria 
has but travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. 
More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss 
of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals 
before Caesar had crossed the Rubicon. The Goths, 
and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms of the North, com- 
pleted only what was already begun at home. Romans 
betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold, but 
the people offered the tribute money. 

And where are the republics of modern times, which 
clustered round immortal Italy? Venice and Genoa exist 
but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the 
brave and peaceful Swiss in their native fastnesses ; but 
the guaranty of their freedom is in their weakness, and 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 29 

not in their strength. The mountains are not easily- 
crossed, and the valleys are not easily retained. When 
the invader comes, he moves like an avalanche, carry- 
ing destruction in his path. The peasantry sinks before 
him. The country is too poor for plunder, and too 
rough for valuable conquest. Nature presents her eter- 
nal barriers on every side to check the wantonness of 
ambition; and Switzerland remains with her simple 
institutions, a military road to fairer climates, scarcely 
worth a permanent possession, and protected by the 
jealousy of her neighbors. 



EXERCISE XVIII. 
WHAT MIND IS FREE? 

I call that mind free, which masters the senses, which 
protects itself against animal appetites, which contemns 
pleasure and pain in comparison with its own energy, 
which penetrates beneath the body and recognizes its 
own reality and greatness, which passes life, not in ask- 
ing what it shall eat or drink, but in hungering, thirst- 
ing and seeking, after righteousness. " 

I call that mind free, which escapes the bondage of 
matter, which, instead of stopping at the material uni- 
verse and making it a prison wall, passes beyond it to 
its Author, and finds, in the radiant signatures which it 
everywhere bears of the Infinite Spirit, helps to its own 
spiritual enlargement. 

I call that mind free, which jealously guards its intel- 
lectual rights and powers, which calls no man master, 
which does not content itself with a passive or hereditary 
faith, which opens itself to light whencesoever it may 
come, which receives new truth as an angel from 
heaven, which, while consulting others, inquires still 
more of the oracle within itself, and uses instruction 
from abroad, not to supersede, but quicken and exalt, 
its own energies. 

I call that mind free, which sets no bounds to its love, 
which is not imprisoned in itself or in a sect, which 
recognizes in all human beings the image of God and the 
3* 



30 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

rights of His children, which delights in virtue and 
sympathizes with suffering, wherever they are seen, 
which conquers pride, anger and sloth, and offers itself 
up a willing victim to the cause of mankind. 

I call that mind free, which is not passively framed 
by outward circumstances, which is not swept away 
by the torrent of events, which is not the creature 
of accidental impulse, but which bends events to its 
own improvement, and acts from an inward spring, 
from immutable principles which it has deliberately 
espoused. 

I call that mind free, which protects itself against the 
usurpations of society, which does not cower to human 
opinion, which feels itself accountable to a higher 
tribunal than man's, which respects a higher law than 
fashion, which respects itself too much to be the slave 
or tool of the many or the few. 

I call that mind free, which, through confidence in 
God, and in the power of virtue, has cast off all fear 
but that of wrong doing, which no menace or peril can 
enthral, which is calm in the midst of tumults, and pos- 
sesses itself, though all else be lost. 

I call that mind free, which resists the bondage of 
habit, which does not mechanically repeat itself and 
copy the past, which does not live on its old virtues, 
which does not enslave itself to precise rules, but which 
forgets what is behind, listens for new and higher moni- 
tions of conscience, and rejoices to pour itself forth in 
fresh and higher exertions. 

I call that mind free, which is jealous of its own free- 
dom, which guards itself from being merged in others, 
which guards its empire over itself as nobler than the 
empire of the world. 

In fine, I call that mind fiee, which, conscious of its 
affinity with God, and confiding in His promises by 
Jesus Christ, devotes itself faithfully to the unfolding of 
all its powers, which passes the bounds of time and 
death, which hopes to advance forever, and which finds 
inexhaustible power, both for action and suffering, in 
the prospect of immortality. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER, 31 

EXERCISE XIX. 
SCIENCE. 

Science does not stint man to the blessings of his own 
skies : she levels the forest, and fashions it to her mind, 
until the oak floats a gallant ship upon the waters, as on 
its element ; she clothes it with wings, and sends it 
across the ocean, compelling the very stars to tell the 
mariner his way whithersoever he would go, that she 
may pour into the lap of man the blessings of other 
climes, of which nature has been chary to his own. 
Thus she binds the families of the earth together in the 
interests of commerce, enriching each with the good of 
all. These are the triumphs of science. 

And thus she has brought us, step by step, invention 
after invention, to the present state of civilized man. 
Nor does she close her labors here. She comes to man 
as a bride, with the treasures of the earth, the sea and 
the sky, for her dower ; but it is not in her dower, rich 
and divine though it be, that her chief excellence con- 
sists. She is to be loved and prized for herself, as well 
as for the blessings she brings with her; and they 
usually woo her most successfully who seek her with 
no mercenary aims. 

He who cultivates an acquaintance with the world in 
which he lives can never be alone. What is solitude, 
but the emptiness of an ignorant mind? He who can 
converse with nature, and ponder on the varied mys- 
teries she brings to his notice, and by which she fills his 
heart with gratitude and delight, can never be alone. 
He needs no companionship. Let him wander forth by 
hill, and brook, and grove, — no rhyming, love-sick, 
dreaming enthusiast, but a shrewd observer of facts, a 
searcher after principles and laws, — and nature has 
enough to occupy, to interest, and improve, in her most 
common forms, without sending him to libraries for 
knowledge. 

Where the vulgar eye can see only a shapeless mass of 
rock, revealing nothing to the careless and ignorant, he 
will detect a chronicle of the past, and tracing it to its 
native quarry, gather something from it of the stupen- 
dous changes which have transpired in our globe. While 



32 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

others pass by the insect, unheeded in its toil, he will 
stoop to watch its labors, discover its habits, and admire 
the Divine wisdom which has fitted it to its sphere. 
The very clod, which is trod unnoticed by the common 
foot, in the organization of the humble herb upon it, the 
root, the stem, the circulation of its juices, and the pro- 
vision for continuing ifs kind, is as a page in God's 
book, where He has stereotyped His power, His wisdom 
and His goodness. He cannot be a solitary being. The 
universe is open before him, and he sees everywhere 
the majesty and loveliness of a higher nature. Where 
others can perceive nothing, learn nothing, order, beauty 
and law, are revealed to him. Where others can see 
but a stone, he sees a God, and worships. He cannot 
be alone ; for, step by step, he learns to understand what 
a God only could create. 



EXERCISE XX. 
FIDELITY TO THE FEDERAL UNION. 

I would earnestly exhort every son of New England 
to be faithful forever to the Federal Union. While they 
exercise, according to their several convictions, their 
political rights, in opposing all partial and sectional leg- 
islation, in resisting the extension, by the national author- 
ity, of anti-republican institutions, and discountenancing 
unrighteousness and injustice in the mode in which the 
government is administered, let them rejoice in the as- 
surance that, over whatever extent of territory, and from 
whatever motives of policy, the confederacy is spread, 
within its boundaries the arts of peace, which are their 
arts, and were the arts of their fathers, will have an 
opportunity, such as has never been secured before, to 
prevail over all the other arts. 

If, impelled by the enterprise which marks their race, 
they follow with their traffic and ingenious industry the 
conquests of our armies, or open the way for cultivation 
and civilization to advance into the remotest regions of 
the West, or pursue their avocations in any quarter of 
the Union, however inconsistent with their views its 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 33 

peculiar institutions may be, if they carry their house- 
hold gods with them, all others will gradually be con- 
verted to their principles, and imbued with their spirit. 
If the sons of New England rear the schoolhouse and 
the church wherever they select their homes, if they 
preserve the reliance upon their own individual energies, 
the love of knowledge, the trust in Providence, the spirit 
of patriotic faith and hope, which made its most barren 
regions blossom and become fruitful around their fathers, 
then will the glorious vision of those fathers be realized, 
and the continent rejoice, in all its latitudes and from 
sea to sea, in the blessings of freedom and education, of 
peace and prosperity, of virtue and religion. 



EXERCISE XXI. 
THE FATHERS OF MASSACHUSETTS. 

The venerable foundations of our republic, fellow- 
citizens, were laid, on the very spot where we stand, by 
the fathers of Massachusetts. Here, before they were 
able to erect a suitable place for worship, they were 
wont, beneath the branches of a spreading tree, to com- 
mend their wants, their sufferings, and their hopes, to 
Him that dwelleth not in houses made with hands ; 
here they erected their first habitations ; here they gath- 
ered their first church ; here they made their first graves. 

Yes, on the very spot where we are assembled, crowned 
with this spacious edifice, surrounded by the comfort- 
able abodes of a dense population, there were, during 
the first season after the landing of Winthrop, fewer 
dwellings for the living than graves for the dead. It 
seemed the will of Providence, that our fathers should 
be tried by the extremities of either season. When the 
Pilgrims approached the coast of Plymouth, they found 
it clad with all the terrors of a northern winter : 

The sea around was black with storms, 
And white the shore with snow. 

The Massachusetts company arrived at the close of 
June. No vineyards, as now, clothed our inhospitable 



34 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

hill-sides ; no blooming orchards, as at the present day, 
wore the livery of Eden, and loaded the breeze with 
sweet odors ; no rich pastures nor waving crops stretched 
beneath the eye, along the way-side, from village to vil- 
lage, as if Nature had been spreading her halls with a 
carpet fit to be pressed by the footsteps of her descend- 
ing God ! The beauty and the bloom of the year had 
passed. The earth, not yet subdued by culture, bore 
upon its untilled bosom nothing but a dismal forest, that 
mocked their hunger with rank and unprofitable vegeta- 
tion. The sun was hot in the heavens. The soil was 
parched ; and the hand of man had not yet taught its 
secret springs to flow from their fountains. The wast- 
ing disease of the heart-sick mariner was upon the men ; 
and the women and children thought of the pleasant 
homes of England, as they sunk down from day to day, 
and died, at last, for want of a cup of cold water, in this 
melancholy land of promise. 



EXERCISE XXII. 
VALEDICTORY ADDRESS. 

We thank you, friends, who have come hither on this 
occasion, to encourage and cheer us with your presence. 
We thank you, who have gone so far and learned so 
much, on your journey of life, that you so kindly look 
back and smile upon us just setting out on our pilgrim- 
age. We thank you who have climbed so high up the 
Hill of Science, that you condescend to pause a moment 
in your course, and bestow a cheering, animating glance 
on us, who, almost invisible in the distance, are toiling 
over the roughness of the first ascent. May you go on 
your way in peace, your path, like the sun, waxing 
brighter and brighter till the perfect day ; and may the 
light of your example long linger in blessings on those of 
us who shall survive to take your places in the broad 
and busy world ! 

We thank you, respected instructors, for your paternal 
care, your faithful counsels, and affectionate instructions. 
You have opened before us those ways of wisdom which 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 35 

are full of pleasantness and peace. You have warned 
us of danger, when dangers beset our path ; you have 
removed obstacles, when obstacles impeded our progress ; 
you have corrected us when in error, and cheered us 
when discouraged. You have told us of the bright 
rewards of knowledge and virtue, and of the fearful 
recompense of ignorance and vice. In the name of my 
companions, I thank you — warmly, sincerely thank you 
for it all. Our lips cannot express the gratitude that 
glows within our hearts ; but we will endeavor, with the 
blessing of Heaven, to testify it in our future lives, by 
dedicating all that we are, and all that we may attain, 
to the promotion of virtue and the good of mankind. 

And now, beloved companions, I turn to you. Long 
and happy has been our connection as members of this 
school; but with this day it must close forever. No 
longer shall we sit in these seats to listen to the voice 
that woos us to be wise ; no more shall we sport together 
on the noisy green, or wander in the silent grove. Other 
scenes, other society, other pursuits, await us. We must 
part; — but parting shall only draw closer the ties that 
bind us. The setting sun and the evening star, which 
have so often witnessed our social intimacies and joys, 
shall still remind us of the scenes that are past. While 
we live on the earth, may we cherish a grateful remem- 
brance of each other ; and, oh ! in Heaven, may our 
friendship be purified and perpetuated ! And now, to 
old and young, to patrons and friends, to instructors and 
associates, we tender our reluctant and affectionate fare- 
well. 



EXERCISE XXIII. 
THE PEOPLE IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM. 

In the prodigious efforts of a veteran army, beneath 
the dazzling splendor of their array, there is something 
revolting to the reflective mind. The ranks are filled 
with the desperate, the mercenary, the depraved; an 
iron slavery, by the name of subordination, merges the 
free will of one hundred thousand men in the unquali- 



36 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

fied despotism of one; the humanity, mercy, and re- 
morse, which scarce ever desert the individual bosom, 
aie sounds without a meaning, to that fearful, ravenous, 
irrational monster of prey, a mercenary army. It is 
hard to say who are most to be commiserated, the 
wretched people on whom it is let loose, or the still more 
wretched people, whose substance has been sucked out 
to nourish it into strength and fury. 

But, in the efforts of the people, of the people strug- 
gling for their rights, moving not in organized, disci- 
plined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man for 
man, and heart for heart, — though I like not war, nor 
any of its works, — there is something glorious. They 
can then move forward without orders, act together 
without combination, and brave the flaming lines of 
battle, without entrenchments to cover, or walls to shield 
them. 

No dissolute camp has worn off frorrx the feelings of 
the youthful soldier the freshness of that home, where 
his mother and his sisters sit waiting, with tearful eyes 
and aching hearts, to hear good news from the wars; 
no long service in the ranks of a conqueror has turned 
the veteran's heart into marble ; their valor springs not 
from recklessness, from habit, from indifference to the 
preservation of a life knit by no pledges to the life of 
others ; but in the strength and spirit of the cause alone, 
they act, they contend, they bleed. In this, they con- 
quer. 

The people always conquer. They always must 
conquer. Armies may be defeated ; kings may be over- 
thrown, and new dynasties imposed by foreign arms on 
an ignorant and slavish race, that care not in what lan- 
guage the covenant of their subjection runs, nor in whose 
name the deed of their barter and sale is made out. 
But the people never invade ; and when they rise against 
the invader, are never subdued. 

If they are driven from the plains, they fly to the 
mountains. Steep rocks, and everlasting hills, are their 
castles ; the tangled, pathless thicket, their palisado ; and 
nature, — God, is their ally. Now he overwhelms the 
hosts of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 37 

sand ; now he buries them beneath a falling atmosphere 
of polar snows ; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets ; 
he puts a folly into their counsels, a madness into the 
hearts of their leaders ; and never gave, and never will 
give, a full and final triumph over a virtuous, gallant 
people, resolved to be free. 



EXERCISE XXIV. 
KNOWLEDGE AND ENTERPRISE. 

We hear much at present of the veins of gold which 
are brought to light in every latitude of either hemi- 
sphere. But I care not what mines may be opened in 
the north or in the south, in the mountains of Siberia or 
the Sierras of California ; wheresoever the fountains of 
the golden tide may gush forth, the streams will flow to 
the regions where the educated intellect has woven the 
boundless net-work of the useful and ornamental arts. 
Yes, sir, if Massachusetts remains true to the policy 
which has hitherto in the main governed her legislation, 
a generous wave of the golden tide will reach her distant 
shores. Let others 

Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll, 
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole ; 
Or under southern skies exalt their sails, 
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales, 
For me 

Yes, for me may poor old rocky, sandy Massachusetts 
exclaim, — land as she is of the school, the academy, 
and the college, — land of the press, the lecture-room, 
and the church, 

For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow, 
The coral redden, and the ruby glow, 
The pearly shell its lucid globe infold, 
And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold. 

It matters not if every pebble in the bed of the Sacra- 
mento were a diamond as big and as precious as the 
mysterious Ko-hi-noor, which we read of in the last ac- 
counts from India, on whose possession the fate of empire 
is believed, in those benighted regions, to depend. It 
matters not if this new Pactolus flow through a region 
which stretches for furlongs — a tract of solid gold. The 
4 



38 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

jewels and the ingots will find their way to the great 
centres of civilization, where cultivated minds give birth 
to the arts, and freedom renders property secure. The 
region itself, to which these fabulous treasures are at- 
tracting the countless hosts of thrift, cupidity and adven- 
ture, will derive, I fear, the smallest part of the benefit. 
Could they be peopled entirely with emigrants like the 
best of those who have taken their departure from among 
us, and who carry with them an outfit of New England 
principles and habits, it would be well ; but much I fear 
the gold region will for a long time be a scene of anarchy 
and confusion, of violence and bloodshed, of bewildering 
gains and maddening losses, of anything but social hap- 
piness, and well-regulated civil liberty. 



EXEKCISE XXV. 
POWER OF INDIVIDUAL CHARACTER. 

The power of character, growing out of the free 
development of the turn of mind of every individual, 
and the feeling connected with it, that each one may 
and must choose his own course, open his own path, 
and determine his own condition, has made New Eng- 
land impregnable, and covered her comparatively stub- 
born and sterile soil with abundance. This is the secret 
magic by which her sons command success and wealth 
wherever they wander. The states included under 
that name have contracted limits, and are subject to 
many disadvantages; on the expanding map, or in the 
multiplying census of the Union, they may appear feeble 
and insignificant. But their prosperity is sure, and will 
be perpetual. No power of party, no sectional preju- 
dice, no error of policy, no injustice of government, can 
permanently or essentially check the career of progress 
in wealth and civilization, along which the energies of 
individual ingenuity, enterprise, intelligence, and indus- 
try, have from the beginning impelled them. 

When this force of individual character, this conscious- 
ness of inherent power, is once brought into exercise, 
and becomes habitual, entering into the frame of the 
mind, then is man clothed with his true strength. Ob- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 39 

stacle, peril, and suffering, serve only to reveal in the 
heart sources of energy hidden and undreamed of before. 
The great master of the drama, and of human nature, 
expounds the principle. 

" The fire i' the flint 



Shows not, till it be struck." 

One of the most accomplished of the Latin classics 
declares the effect which trial and difficulty exert in 
bringing out this mighty force of character, "Adversa 
magnos probant." All history and observation demon- 
strate it. 

The mind, thrown upon its own resources, and sum- 
moning them resolutely to the effort, rises with every 
emergency, and confronts and surmounts all that can 
be brought against it. Such was the discipline of the 
early New England character. Cold, hunger, disease, 
desolation, grappled with it in vain at the beginning. 
Neither the tomahawk nor war-whoop of the Indian, nor 
all the terrors which hung over their defenceless hamlets, 
could subdue hearts armed with this inward strength. 
It grew with constant and healthful vigor through all 
vicissitudes. The neglect of the mother country could 
not cast a shade dark or damp enough to wither it; the 
most violent storms of its anger could not break it. 
Charters were torn away by the ruthless hand of arbi- 
trary power, and every resource of despotism was ex- 
hausted to curb and crush it. But all was in vain. 

The people, severally and universally, had realized 
their rights and their power, as men ; and a determina- 
tion to advance their own condition, to retain and enlarge 
their privileges, thus pervading the entire population, 
made them superior to all local disadvantages, and tri- 
umphant over all opposition. It placed their prosperity 
beyond the reach of power or fortune. So long as the 
arm of the settler could wield an axe, or his hand cast 
a vote; so long as the district schoolhouse opened its 
doors to impart the knowledge and the mental culture 
enabling him to understand and maintain his rights, or 
the village church lifted its spire into the heavens to 
remind him of that immortal element, which, glowing 



40 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

in his breast, placed him on a level with the highest of 
his fellow-men, it would be impossible to enslave him, 
or prevent his progress. 



EXERCISE XXVI. 
INDUSTRY NECESSARY TO SUCCESS. 

Success in every art, whatever may be the natural 
talent, is always the reward of industry and pains. But 
the instances are many, of men of the finest natural 
genius, whose beginning has promised much, but who 
have degenerated wretchedly as they advanced, because 
they trusted to their gifts, and made no effort to improve. 
That there have never been other men of equal endow- 
ments with Cicero and Demosthenes, none would ven- 
ture to suppose ; but who have so devoted themselves 
to their art, or become equal in excellence ? If those 
great men had been content, like others, to continue as 
they began, and had never made their persevering efforts 
for improvement, what could their countries have bene- 
fited from their genius, or the world have known of their 
fame ? They would have been lost in the undistin- 
guished crowd, that sank to oblivion around them. 

Of how many more will the same remark prove true ! 
What encouragement is thus given to the industrious ! 
With such encouragement, how inexcusable is the neg- 
ligence which suffers the most interesting and important 
truths to seem heavy and dull, and fall ineffectual to the 
ground, through mere sluggishness in the delivery. How 
unworthy of one who performs the high function of a 
religious instructor — upon whom depend, in a great 
measure, the religious knowledge, and devotional senti- 
ment, and final character, of many fellow-beings — to 
imagine that he can worthily discharge this great con- 
cern by occasionally talking for an hour, he knows not 
how, and in a manner he has taken no pains to render 
correct, impressive, or attractive ! and which, simply 
through that want of command over himself which 
study would give, is unmethodical, verbose, inaccurate, 
feeble, trifling ! It has been said of the good preacher, 

" That truths divine come mended from his tongue." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 41 

Alas ! they come ruined and worthless from such a man 
as this ! They lose that holy energy by which they are 
to convert the soul and purify man for heaven, and sink, 
in interest and efficacy, below the level of those princi- 
ples which govern the ordinary affairs of this lower 
world. 



EXERCISE XXVII. 
THE SPIRIT OF WAR. 

Men rush to the contest not only to gratify their own 
martial passion, but to partake in the glory which crowns 
great feats of arms. The military feeling is too easily 
excited in this country for our welfare. It is one of the 
most unfavorable signs of our political times, that bril- 
liant success in war is such a ready passport to the 
highest confidence and estimation of the people. It 
seems as if the skill that can gain a battle was connected 
in very many minds with every talent and virtue under 
heaven. 

Because we have had a General Washington, who 
gave victory to our arms, many seem to think that all 
successful generals must be Washingtons, and that the 
exchange of a conquering sword for the sceptre of civil 
dominion, in the father of his country, has fixed the 
model for all succeeding ages. So war has become a 
manufacturing of candidates for office. Every new field 
of blood is another step towards the civil promotion of 
some of the combatants, — to shoot and be shot at, is a 
qualification for office ; hence men will put on the plume 
and epaulet, and hasten to the scene of strife, to gain 
political distinction by killing men. General Taylor's 
camp has rivalled Congress with multitudes who thirst 
for distinction, and the road to Mexico has become the 
path to the highest honors of the state. 

Some of the members of Congress have exchanged the 
Honorable for the Colonel, and have left the arena of 
combat at Washington, for the bloody field of Mexico, 
to gain, by the valorous use of the sword, that elevation 
which they could not reach by eloquence of debate. The 
4* 



42 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

common soldier, who cannot lift his eyes so high as to 
the summits of political distinction, hurries away from 
the quiet pursuits of life, to partake in the strifes of a 
successful campaign, and acquire a petty renown among 
the inhabitants of his native village. When shall a just 
estimate of the requisites of our national safety, and a 
proper application of those talents and pursuits which 
tend in the highest manner to develop the humane and 
noble theory of our republican institutions, check that 
excess of military feeling which bestows such undue 
honors on the achievements of mighty warriors ? 



EXERCISE XXVIII. 
WAR AND PEACE. 

War crushes with bloody heel all justice, all happi- 
ness, all that is godlike in man. "It is," says the 
eloquent Robert Hall, "the temporary repeal of all the 
principles of virtue." True, it cannot be disguised that 
there are passages in its dreary annals cheered by deeds 
of generosity and sacrifice. But the virtues which shed 
their charm over its horrors are all borrowed of Peace ; 
they are emanations of the spirit of love, which is so 
strong in the heart of man that it survives the rudest 
assaults. The flowers of gentleness, of kindliness, of 
fidelity, of humanity, which flourish in unregarded lux- 
uriance in the rich meadows of Peace, receive unwonted 
admiration when we discern them in war, like violets 
shedding their perfume on the perilous edges of the prec- 
ipice, beyond the smiling borders of civilization. 

God be praised for all the examples of magnanimous 
virtue which he has vouchsafed to mankind ! God be 
praised that the Roman emperor, about to start on a 
distant expedition of war, encompassed by squadrons of 
cavalry and by golden eagles which moved in the winds, 
stooped from his saddle to listen to the prayer of the 
humble widow, demanding justice for the death of her 
son ! God be praised that Sydney, on the field of battle, 
gave with dying hand the cup of cold water to the dying 
soldier! That single act of self-forgetful sacrifice has 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 43 

consecrated the fenny field of Zutphen far, oh ! far be- 
yond its battle ; it has consecrated thy name, gallant 
Sydney, beyond any feat of thy sword, beyond any 
triumph of thy pen ! But there are hands outstretched 
elsewhere than on fields of blood, for so little as a cup 
of cold water ; the world is full of opportunities for deeds 
of kindness. Let me not be told, then, of the virtues of 
War. Let not the acts of generosity and sacrifice which 
have triumphed on its fields be invoked in its defence. 
In the words of Oriental imagery, the poisonous tree, 
though watered by nectar, can produce only the fruit of 
death ! 

As we cast our eyes over the history of nations, we 
discern with horror the succession of murderous slaugh- 
ters by which their progress has been marked. As the 
hunter traces the wild beast, when pursued to his lair, 
by the drops of blood on the earth, so we follow Man, 
faint, weary, staggering with wounds, through the black 
forest of the past, which he has reddened with his gore. 
Oh ! let it not be in the future ages as in those which 
we now contemplate. Let the grandeur of man be dis- 
cerned in the blessings which he has secured : in the 
good he has accomplished : in the triumphs of benevo- 
lence and justice; in the establishment of perpetual 
peace ! 

As the ocean washes every shore, and clasps, with 
all-embracing arms, every land, while it bears on its 
heaving bosom the products of various climes ; so Peace 
surrounds, protects, and upholds all other blessings. 
Without it, commerce is vain, the ardor of industry is 
restrained, happiness is blasted, virtue sickens and dies. 



EXERCISE XXIX. 
PROVIDENTIAL AGENCY. 



It is, I think, the great error and fault of our times 
and country, that but little reliance is placed on the 
overruling and cooperating agency of God, and but little 
room allowed for it, in the calculations and projects of 
men. The philanthropists and reformers of the age, 



44 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

especially, seem to be unmindful of Providential agency. 
They, as well as the politicians, speak and act as though 
the salvation of mankind depended upon the adoption of 
certain measures of theirs, and the cause of human lib- 
erty and progress rested mainly on the success of their 
schemes and efforts. Indeed, there is a too general, if 
not an almost universal, tendency to look to modifica- 
tions of government, acts of legislation, and associated 
movements, as the sole means of promoting the welfare 
of communities. Men allow themselves to identify the 
cause of liberty and righteousness with their own favor- 
ite notions and projects ; and, having come to the con- 
clusion that they must have their way or all will be lost, 
pursue their purposes with a fanatical, overbearing and 
unscrupulous spirit. 

The oppressions and persecutions with which man- 
kind have been afflicted from the beginning have sprung 
not from malignity or cruelty, but from the fatal persua- 
sion that the welfare and redemption of the race are 
inseparably connected with the prevalence of some par- 
ticular service, or creed, or government. The same 
cause produces, as far as circumstances allow, the same 
effect now. The theologian, when he witnesses the de- 
cline of any of his own favorite dogmas, feels that the 
rock on which the Saviour planted his church is crum- 
bling beneath it. The politician, when the elections have 
terminated in the overthrow of his party and the access 
to power of his opponents, sinks into despair of the 
republic. The philanthropist, when the particular plan 
he has long been urging upon the public, as the only 
adequate means of ameliorating the condition and re- 
moving the wrongs of his fellow-men. is discredited and 
discarded, is too apt to abandon his hopes of humanity, 
and lose his faith as well as his temper. 

The element in which they are all deficient is an 
abiding, intelligent, steadfast assurance that God. as 
well as they, is at work reforming and blessing the 
world. Instead of assuming, as they attempt to do. the 
entire command of events, if they would but pause, from 
time to time, and trace the steps of the All- wise and 
Omnipotent Disposer, and await with serene and cheer- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 45 

ful confidence the movements of the Divine Agency, a 
path of most efficient and benignant action would be 
opened to them, and their efforts be crowned with sure 
and permanent success. 



EXERCISE XXX. 
TEMPERANCE. 

The progress of temperance, during the last few years, 
has been brilliant and rapid beyond all former precedent. 
Hundreds of thousands of our countrymen, who never 
drank to excess, have bound themselves to perpetual 
abstinence, while multitudes of moderate drinkers and 
drunkards have subscribed with their hands that instru- 
ment, which, if faithfully kept, will secure them forever 
from the curse of intemperance. Thousands of families 
which were suffering all the accumulated woes of in- 
temperance, are now blessed with the comforts and en- 
joyments of life. 

Want, which stood, like an armed man, at the very 
threshold of their doors, has been driven away, and 
plenty crowns their board. Misery, which stalked 
among them like the spectre of despair, has left them 
forever ; while the Angel of Happiness spreads over them 
her wings all radiant with feathers of gold, and the star 
of hope throws its silver light around their path. Look 
over our land ; enter the populous cities, strewn all along 
the Atlantic coast and far into the interior, mark the vil- 
lages that everywhere meet the eye, and behold the 
wonderful change that has been effected in the customs 
and habits of their inhabitants, and if you do not ex- 
claim, in the language of Holy Writ, " What hath God 
wrought ! " you must be destitute of the high and enno- 
bling attributes of humanity. 

It transcends the power of the human mind to com- 
pute, in all their length and breadth, in all their glory 
and grandeur, the blessed fruits of the temperance reform. 
It has transformed brutes into men, — men of refined 
sensibilities, of noble, god-like powers of intelligence. It 
has taken the beggar from the gutter, and placed him 



46 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



among the princes and potentates of the earth. It has 
lifted the crushed and bruised spirit of the wife, whose 
frame was too delicate for the winds of heaven to visit 
roughly, whose mental susceptibilities were too exquisite 
to endure the rude insults of the drunkard, and who was 
trampled under foot and made the veriest slave of her 
brutal lord ; it has raised the spirit of this woman, thus 
abject and wo-begone, to the heights of hope and happi- 
ness, placed a new song in her mouth, and awakened in 
her breast immortal hopes and aspirations. It has taken 
the little child, whose only dream was of misery, into 
its arms, and blessed it. It has thrown over the face of 
society a light, like that of another sun risen upon mid- 
noon; and you and I, and millions more, walk in its 
brightness, scarcely conscious of its surpassing glory. 



EXERCISE XXXI. 
POPULAR INSTITUTIONS. 

Our popular institutions are favorable to intellectual 
improvement, because their foundation is in dear nature. 
They do not consign the greater part of the social frame 
to torpidity and mortification. They send out a vital 
nerve to every member of the community, by which its 
talent and power, great or small, are brought into living 
conjunction and strong sympathy with the kindred in- 
tellect of the nation ; and every impression on every part 
vibrates with electric rapidity through the whole. They 
encourage nature to perfect her work ; they make educa- 
tion, the soul's nutriment, cheap; they bring up remote 
and shrinking talent into the cheerful field of competi- 
tion ; in a thousand ways they provide an audience for 
lips which nature has touched with persuasion; they 
put a lyre into the hands of genius; they bestow on all 
who deserve it, or seek it, the only patronage worth hav- 
ing, the only patronage that ever struck out a spark of 
" celestial fire," — the patronage of fair opportunity. 

This is a day of improved education ; new systems of 
teaching are devised; modes of instruction, choice of 
studies, adaptation of text-books, the whole machinery 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 47 

of means, have been brought, in our day, under severe 
revision. But were I to attempt to point out the most 
efficacious and comprehensive improvement in educa- 
tion, the engine by which the greatest portion of mind 
could be brought and kept under cultivation, the disci- 
pline which would reach furthest, sink deepest, and 
cause the word of instruction, not to spread over the sur- 
face like an artificial hue, carefully laid on, but to pen- 
etrate to the heart and soul of its objects, it would be 
popular institutions. Give the people an object in pro- 
moting education, and the best methods will infallibly 
be suggested by that instinctive ingenuity of our nature 
which provides means for great and precious ends. Give 
the people an object in promoting education, and the 
worn hand of labor will be opened to the last farthing, 
that its children may enjoy means denied to itself. This 
great contest about black-boards and sand-tables will 
then lose something of its importance, and even the ex- 
alted names of Bell and Lancaster may sink from that 
very lofty height where an over hasty-admiration has 
placed them. 



EXERCISE XXXII. 
REFLECTIONS AT MOUNT AUBURN. 

Entering Mount Auburn, I ascended an eminence, 
and with feelings attuned to pensiveness, I threw my- 
self upon the earth, at the foot of an ancient oak, and 
pored upon the scene. In a reverie I gazed upon the 
green landscape beneath, sleeping in the calm sunshine 
at my feet, and fading away in the distance into the soft 
blue hills that skirted the horizon. I turned my eye to 
the east, where Boston, swelling up with her proud 
domes and glittering spires, marked a her noble outline 
upon the clear sky ; and a feeling of awe came over me 
as I contemplated that majestic form, lifting its mass of 
stately architecture into the air, with a commanding 
grandeur, as if demanding the gazer's homage to the 
Queen of the North. 

"This," said I, "is the city of riches and splendor; 



48 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

there lie her fleets ; there throng her thousands of mer- 
chants and tradesmen ; there stand her palaces and her 
temples ; there shine her halls and saloons, the abodes 
of wealth and the home of gayety and fashion ; there 
throng her countless swarms of busy citizens, those mul- 
titudes that roar and thunder like a mountain stream 
within her limits, but of whom scarce a faint murmur 
comes to my ear upon the passing breeze. Shall those 
lordly domes and ambitious roofs crumble to dust, and 
leave not a wreck behind ? Is that gay and eager mass, 
now teeming with young life and enjoyment, and shin- 
ing as if earth contained no tomb, nought but such stuff 
as dreams are made of? Are they no more than the 
poor tenants of a little life that is rounded with a sleep ? 
" Yes, those cloud-capped towers shall fall ; those fair 
bosoms now burning with high hope, those bright eyes 
that beam with love, shall close in darkness. Man of 
wealth, thy princely mansion shall forget thy name ! 
Maiden of the blooming cheek, to-morrow shall the ring 
sparkle and the hall resound, but none shall think of 
thee ? The generation, too, that cometh shall stay but 
for a time. The Queen of the North shall bow her head 
and fall — and no city shall be eternal but the City of 
the Dead ! " 



EXERCISE XXXIII. 
MAN A SOCIAL BEING. 

Man has an individual and he has a social being. He 
has duties to himself and duties to his fellow-men. He 
has a selfish and he has a sympathizing nature. He is 
bound in duty to regard his interests as an individual, 
to labor for the comforts of life — to accumulate for the 
necessities of age. He is also bound to interest himself 
in the prosperity of those around him. If successful, 
to aid the unfortunate. If endowed with health and 
strength, to comfort the sick and distressed ; to drop a 
tear of pity over the erring and misguided, to bind up 
the broken-hearted, and administer hope and consolation 
to those whom the rough surges of the world have crushed 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 49 

down to earth. His duties are as important as they are 
varied. Life has its responsibilities and its labors. Dis- 
regard or neglect them, and you oppose the great design 
of the Maker of the universe. Fulfil them, and the 
reward will be sweet and rich, in the calm delights of a 
satisfied conscience, in the feeling that life has not been 
as an idle dream, in the undefinable pleasure excited by 
the tokens of gratitude, deep from the hearts of those 
you have succored and saved. 

Let us know, then, our duties, to perform them. Let us 
seek to appreciate, not only what directly interests us as 
individuals, but whatever concerns us in our relations 
to our fellow-men, our connection as social beings, our 
sympathies as brethren of one great family. We are by 
nature social beings, born and capacitated for society. 
We are no more fitted for solitude than the eagle for the 
dungeon. Seclusion from society enervates the mind, 
impairs the faculties, and blunts the moral nature; while 
communion with our fellow-men Avarms the soul with 
a fervent glow, inspires the mind for its noblest and most 
glorious labors, and infuses an energy and a life to all, 
which forces the individual onward and upward. 

Our social being is necessary to our individual happi- 
ness and advancement. They are indissolubly welded 
together, and no circumstances or habits can completely 
separate them. For a man to say that he cares not for 
others — that he will act without reference to the happi- 
ness and interests of those around him — shows that he 
is not only an unhappy but an ignorant man. We can 
no more divest ourselves of our responsibilities to our 
fellow-men, than we can put an end to our moral ac- 
countability. This responsibility commences with our 
existence, and terminates with our lives. 

The moment we come in contact with our fellow- 
beings, that moment we are bound to enter into a mutual 
contract to respect certain inalienable individual rights, 
though they conflict with or abridge our own immediate 
pleasure or profit — to allow claims which may restrict 
our liberties, and perform duties from which we receive 
no direct benefit. We enter into an involuntary associa- 
tion, from which we cannot recede, and to whose regu- 



50 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 






lations we must be subservient. In plainer words, we 
enter into society. We become component parts of the 
great social system. As I have said, we are formed for 
this by nature. We enter into it without our consent, 
and assume its moral responsibilities, from which we 
cannot escape. But nature, by placing us in this con- 
nection, and imposing these duties and responsibilities, 
is not unmindful of our happiness. For, to incite us to 
perform our duties to others, we have implanted within 
us deep and irresistible emotions, welling forth from 
our inmost hearts, emotions active and ever-living ; they 
are emotions of sympathy and love. They are natural 
and innate. If rightly cherished, they inspire us wit" 
an affection toward all around us. First nurtured in th 
family circle, kindled at the family altar, they increase, 
until they embrace in their glowing conceptions the 
whole human race. They form a bright and golden 
chain, which entwines itself around and leads a willing 
captive the human heart. 



,e 



EXERCISE XXXIV. 
THE DEATH OF J. Q. ADAMS. * 

Mr. Adams must be pronounced happy in the circum- 
stances of his death, as his course through life had been 
marked and glorious. No excesses of a profligate youth, 
no vices of middle life, had shattered and hurried to a 
premature dissolution the body in which such an incor- 
ruptible spirit resided. Nothing in his habits of life 
interfered with nature, to whose gentle influences it was 
left to destroy gradually, and to restore, in a good old 
age, to its parent dust, the perishable part of our friend. 
The law of mortality, which knows no exception among 
the passing generations of our race, was executed in his 
case with as much tenderness and reserve, so to speak, 
as is ever permitted by Providence. The Angel of Death 
came to him a year before his departure, with a sum- 

* This, and the following Exercise, were taken from the eloquent discourse 
of the Rev. Wm. P. Lunt, at the funeral of J. Q,. Adams. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 51 

mons, which seemed to anxious friends to be peremptory 
and final. But we can imagine an expression of reluct- 
ance in the angel's face, as she turned away and kindly 
said, "Not yet." And there is reason to believe, that 
the year which was thus spared to the venerable patriot 
has been a happy one. It was, in fact, the Indian sum- 
mer of his life. 

He was not left to be an object of compassion to friends 
and admirers. No painful contrasts forced them to re- 
vert in memory to better days. But with a mind unim- 
paired ; with an interest in life unabated ; with a cheerful 
relish of the same simple pleasures that he had ever 
enjoyed ; with a self-command which protracted sickness 
had not destroyed ; with a heart still warm and open to 
the impressions of nature and the universe ; with an eye 
that still ranged with delight through the starry spaces, 
or watched the intricate and intervolved orbits of men's 
passions and opinions on the nearer theatre of political, 
social, and religious life upon the earth ; on the chosen 
field of his labors : in the place where his best services to 
his country had been rendered, and his noblest triumphs 
had been Avon ; ministered to by the representatives of 
the nation, from North, South, East and West, he passed 
to his rest. The Angel of Death, when she came again 
to execute her office, left him only the consciousness that 
it was the " last of earth ;" then drew a veil of oblivion 
over his faculties, and sat beside his couch two days, 
before the cord that bound him to this world was sev- 
ered. 



EXERCISE XXXV. 
J. Q. ADAMS. 

I shall not presume, on this occasion, to judge of the 
character of Mr. Adams, or to settle his claims as a 
scholar, a statesman, or a philosopher. I leave that task 
to others more competent for the office. The same prin- 
ciple which governs in criminal trials should also be 
adopted in judging of merit, absolute or relative, in any 
of the great departments of theoretical or practical life. 



52 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Let a man be tried by his peers. To his peers, if they 
can be found, I leave the departed. 

But I think no one will dissent from the statement 
that the life which has recently been closed was an em- 
inently useful life. Mr. Adams has not lived for himself. 
His great powers ; his affluent resources ; his abundant 
learning; his memory, which held with a tenacious 
grasp whatever had once passed into the treasury of his 
mind; his commanding influence, beyond, probably, what 
any individual among his contemporary countrymen has 
ever exercised over public opinion ; his dreaded contro- 
versial skill, which, like the mill-stone in Scripture, was 
fatal alike to those on whom it fell, and to those who fell 
upon it ; the numerous offices which he has filled, from 
the time when, as a lad, he went to St. Petersburg as 
private secretary to the minister to that court, through 
more than fifty years of public service abroad and at 
home, down to the very moment of his death; — all 
these gifts, native and acquired, have been used by him 
to promote the welfare of his country and of mankind. 

He has been, what the Scripture declares the good 
magistrate to be, "a minister of God for good" to his 
native land. In peace and in war ; in foreign courts, 
contending against the insolence of power, and thread- 
ing the labyrinth of political intrigue ; in forming treaties 
upon which the fortunes and lives of thousands depend- 
ed ; in adjusting territorial boundaries, and negotiating 
for an extension of our national domain; in guiding the 
ship of state, often amidst shoals and rocks, and with a 
crew half disposed to mutiny ; in maturing and carrying 
into execution, so far as he was allowed to do it, a wise 
prospective national policy; in efforts to promote the 
cause of education, of science, of freedom, of morals, of 
religion ; — he has lived for others ; he has laid upon the 
altar of his country and his God his exalted talents. 
And this trait in his character is to be in a great meas- 
ure traced to the counsels of that admirable mother, that 
more than Roman, that Christian matron, who stamped 
upon his impressible mind the image of her own virtues, 
and who charged him, from a child, to consecrate his 
faculties to his country and to his Creator. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 53 

EXERCISE XXXVI. 
MOTIVES FOR ACTION. 

The most powerful motives call on us. as scholars, 
for those efforts which our common country demands of 
all her children. Most of us are of that class who owe 
whatever of knowledge has shone into our minds to the 
free and popular institutions of our native land. There 
are few of us who may not be permitted to boast that 
we have been reared in an honest poverty or a frugal 
competence, and owe everything to those means of edu- 
cation which are equally open to all. We are summoned 
to new energy and zeal by the high nature of the exper- 
iment we are appointed in Providence to make, and the 
grandeur of the theatre on which it is to be performed. 

When the old world afforded no longer any hope, it 
pleased Heaven to open this last refuge of humanity. 
The attempt has begun, and is going on, far from foreign 
corruption, on the broadest scale, and under the most 
benignant prospects ; and it certainly rests with us to 
solve the great problem in human society, to settle, and 
that forever, the momentous question — whether man- 
kind can be trusted with a purely popular system ? One 
might almost think, without extravagance, that the de- 
parted wise and good of all places and times are looking 
down from their happy seats to witness what shall now 
be done by us ; that they who have lavished their treas- 
ures and their blood of old, who labored and suffered, 
who spake and wrote, who fought and perished, in the 
one great cause of Freedom and Truth, are now hang- 
ing from their orbs on high, over the last solemn exper- 
iment of humanity. 

As I have wandered over the spots, once the scene of 
their labors, and mused among the prostrate columns of 
their senate-houses and forums, I have seemed almost 
to hear a voice from the tombs of departed ages ; from 
the sepulchres of the nations which died before the sight. 
They exhort us, they adjure us to be faithful to our 
trust. They implore us, by the long trials of struggling 
humanity : by the blessed memory of the departed ; by 
o 



54 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

the dear faith, which has been plighted, by pure hands, 
to the holy cause of truth and man ; by the awful secrets 
of the prison houses, where the sons of freedom have 
been immured ; by the noble heads which have been 
brought to the block ; by the wrecks of time, by the elo- 
quent ruins of nations ; they conjure us not to quench 
the light which is rising on the world. 



EXERCISE XXXVII. 
INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS FOR AN EXHIBITION.* 

We greet with joy this happy day, 
And we will drive dull care away ; — 
Hearts full of cheer, we '11 never fear, 
While we in Wisdom's ways appear: 
For all good people tell me so, — 
And I am sure they ought to know, — 
That Wisdom's ways are good and true, 
And all her paths are peaceful, too. 

Dear parents and friends: — We are glad you have 
come to visit us on this interesting occasion, and we 
hope you will not be disappointed. We have come here, 
at this time, to show you, by our good conduct, and by 
the improvement we have made in our studies, that our 
time has not been wasted, and that the privileges you 
have provided for us have not been wholly misimproved. 
If we have not always done the best we could, we are 
sorry for it, and promise to try to do better, in future. 
But we do think that we have done well, and that we 
have learned a great many useful things. Besides what 
we have learned from our books, our teacher has told us 
many things, which, if Ave remember them, will help to 
make us wise, and good, and happy, all our days. For 
all that he has done for us, we thank him, from our 
young and grateful hearts, and we feel that God will 
bless him too. But some of us are very young, and 
know but little ; and we ask you not to 

" View as with a critic's eye, 
But pass our imperfections by." 

* If the lines at the commencement and close are sung, it will add to the 
interest of this Exercise. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 55 

And now, — I'm glad to say to you, 
Our duty we will try to do, 
And never play the idle fool, 
Nor waste our precious time in school : 
For all good people tell me so, — 
And I am sure they ought to know, — 
That Wisdom's ways are good and true, 
And all her paths are peaceful, too. 



EXERCISE XXXVIII. 
THE PROVINCE OF FAITH. 

Who has ever stood by the architectural ruins of other 
days, whether in India, in her gigantic underground tem- 
ples, excavated from the solid rock, or in Egypt, amid 
her pyramids and gigantic colonnades and ruined cities, 
or amid the ruins of Mexico and Yucatan, or the mys- 
terious but silent mounds of the great West, and not 
wished to wake from oblivion the history of those na- 
tions which left their intellectual impress on these works, 
and by them unfolded the emotions of their hearts ? 

But what palace so splendid as this glorious universe, 
in the midst of which we dwell, and through which we 
rove ? How is it filled with every form of beauty and 
sublimity, and constructed, in all its parts, according to 
the most exquisite rules of art ! How do the gentle 
breezes or the tempestuous gales, the murmuring brooks 
or the raging ocean, or the countless tenants of earth 
and air, commingle and vary those ceaseless anthems 
of praise which ascend before the throne of the eternal 
King ! 

And yet, till the eye is opened by faith, the highest 
and most glorious occupants of this vast palace remain 
unseen, unheard; their ends and sympathies, and joys 
and sorrows, and hopes and fears, are all unknown. 

The chemist can analyze and arrange every element 
of the whole system ; the geologist can investigate the 
structure of the earth ; the natural philosopher may de- 
velop the laws of the atmosphere, of fluids, or of sounds, 
or trace the lightning in its rapid course ; the astronomer 
may penetrate immeasurable realms of space, and dis- 



56 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 






close orb on orb, and system on system, till the mind is 
overwhelmed and lost in the splendor of the scene ; the 
mathematician may calculate with unerring precision 
the times and seasons of the material system ; the histo- 
rian, the musician, the painter, the poet, the sculptor, 
the architect, the linguist, and the philosopher, may each 
traverse and investigate his appropriate sphere, and yet 
not one, or all combined, can penetrate into that higher 
spiritual system, for which this material universe was 
made and exists. 

The light which illuminates these regions of glory pro- 
ceeds direct from God himself, the Eternal Sun, and is 
received by the eye of faith alone. 



EXERCISE XXXIX. 
INTRODUCTORY PIECE FOR AN EVENING EXHIBITION. 

Respected parents and friends: — In behalf of my 
teachers and schoolmates, I, this evening, bid you a cor- 
dial welcome to this our pleasant schoolroom. Here we 
are wont to meet from day to day, and spend many 
hours in attending to those studies which will prepare 
us to discharge usefully the duties of subsequent life. 
We have spent some of our happiest hours in this room, 
and have only to regret that we have not been more dil- 
igent, and more attentive to our duties as members of 
this school. With this regret for errors of the past, we 
feel a strong determination better to improve the future, 
so that each passing moment shall bear with it a good 
record. 

To your attention and kindness we feel greatly in- 
debted for the privileges we here enjoy, and we trust 
that we feel truly grateful. We have invited you to 
meet us here this evening, with the hope that an hour 
may be spent which shall be mutually interesting and 
profitable. In judging' of the exercises to which you 
may this evening listen, we beg that 

" You '11 not view us with a critic's eye, 
But pass our imperfections by." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 57 

We wish you to remember that we are but children, 
and that childhood's errors will probably mark our per- 
formances. We will try to feel that we are surrounded 
by our dearest friends, and if we shall, in any degree, 
succeed in causing this evening to pass in a manner 
agreeable to you, we shall feel amply compensated for 
all our efforts. 

For myself, for my teachers, and for these, my com- 
panions, I tender you heartfelt and sincere thanks for 
all past acts of favor and kindness. Especially would 
we remember, with grateful feelings, those who have 
devoted so much time and manifested so much interest 
for our good, — the members of the school committee. 
We hope no one of them will ever have occasion to feel 
that he has been dishonored by the dishonorable acts of 
any pupil of this school. 

We have been placed under weighty obligation, and 
we feel that much may justly be expected of us. That 
we may properly appreciate and improve our privileges 
so that we may become intelligent, useful, and valuable 
members of society, we bespeak your continued care 
and watchfulness; and, in return for them, we will 
endeavor so to improve our time and opportunities as 
to deserve and secure your hearty approbation. 



EXERCISE XL. 
THE MEMORY OF THE GOOD. 

Why is it that the names of Howard, and Thornton, 
and Clarkson, and Wilberforce, will be held in everlast- 
ing remembrance? Is it not chiefly on account of their 
goodness, their Christian philanthropy, the overflowing 
and inexhaustible benevolence of their great minds? 
Such men feel that they were not born for themselves, 
nor for the narrow circle of their kindred and acquaint- 
ances, but for the world, and for posterity. They delight 
in doing good on a great scale. Their talents, their 
property, their time, their knowledge, and experience, 
and influence, they hold in constant requisition for the 
benefit of the poor, the oppressed, and the perishing. 



58 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 






You may trace them along the whole pathway of life, 
by the blessings which they scatter far and wide. They 
may be likened to yon noble river, which carries glad- 
ness and fertility, from state to state, through all the 
length of that rejoicing valley, which it was made to 
bless, — or to those summer showers which pour glad- 
ness and plenty over all the regions that they visit, till 
they melt away into the glorious effulgence of the set- 
ting sun. 

Such a man was Howard, the prisoners friend. Chris- 
tian philanthrophy was the element in which he lived and 
moved, and out of which life would have been intoler- 
able. It was to him that kings listened with aston- 
ishment, as if doubtful from what world of pure dis- 
interestedness he had come. To him despair opened 
her dungeons, and plague and pestilence could summon 
no terrors to arrest his investigations. In his presence, 
crime, though girt with the iron panoply of desperation, 
stood amazed and rebuked. With him home was noth- 
ing, country was nothing, health was nothing, life was 
nothing. His first and last question was, " What is the 
utmost that I can do for degraded, depraved, bleeding 
humanity, in all her prison houses?" And what won- 
ders did he accomplish ! what astonishing changes in 
the whole system of prison discipline may be traced 
back to his disclosures and suggestions, and how many 
millions, yet to be born, will rise up and call him blessed ! 
Away, all ye Csesars and Napoleons, to your own dark 
and frightful domains of slaughter and misery! Ye 
can no more endure the light of such a godlike presence, 
than the eye, already inflamed to torture by dissipation, 
can look the sun in the face at noonday. 



EXERCISE XLI. 
THE MOTHER LAND. 



What American does not feel proud that he is descend- 
ed from the countrymen of Bacon, of Newton and of 
Locke ? Who does not know, that while every pulse 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 59 

of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat 
warm and full in the bosom of our fathers, the sobriety, 
the firmness, and the dignity with which the cause of 
free principles struggled into existence here, constantly 
found encouragement and countenance from the sons of 
liberty there ? Who does not remember that when the 
Pilgrims went over the sea, the prayers of the faithful 
British confessors, in all the quarters of their dispersion, 
went over with them, while their aching eyes were 
strained, till the star of hope should go up in the western 
skies? And who will ever forget that in that eventful 
struggle which severed this mighty empire from the 
British crown, there was not heard, throughout our con- 
tinent in arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights 
of America, than that of Burke or of Chatham, within 
the walls of the British parliament, and at the foot of 
the British throne ? No, for myself, I can truly say, 
that after my native land, I feel a tenderness and a 
reverence for that of my fathers. The pride I take in 
my own country makes me respect that from which we 
are sprung. 

In touching the soil of England, I seem to return like 
a descendant to the old family seat ; — to come back to 
the abode of an aged, the tomb of a departed, parent. I 
acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. The 
sound of my native language, beyond the sea, is a music 
to my ear, beyond the richest strains of Tuscan softness, 
or Castilian majesty. I am not yet in a land of stran- 
gers, while surrounded by the manners, the habits, the 
forms in which I have been brought up. I wander de- 
lighted through a thousand scenes, which the historians, 
the poets, have made familiar to us, — of which the 
names are interwoven with our earliest associations. I 
tread with reverence the spots where I can retrace the 
footsteps of our suffering fathers ; the pleasant land of 
their birth has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a 
classic, yea, a holy land, rich in the memories of the 
great and good ; the martyrs of liberty, the exiled her- 
alds of truth ; and richer as the parent of this land of 
promise in the west. 

I am not — I need not say I am not — the pane- 



1 



60 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

gyrist of England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor 
awed by her power. The sceptre, the mitre, and the 
coronet, stars, garters and blue ribbons, seem to me poor 
things for great men to contend for. Nor is my admira- 
tion awakened by her armies, mustered for the battles 
of Europe; her navies, overshadowing the ocean; nor 
her empire, grasping the furthest east. It is these, and 
the price of guilt and blood by which they are main- 
tained, which are the cause why no friend of liberty can 
salute her with undivided affections. But it is the 
refuge of free principles, though often persecuted; the 
school of religious liberty, the more precious for the 
struggles to which it has been called ; the tombs of those 
who have reflected honor on all who speak the English 
tongue ; it is the birthplace of our fathers, the home of 
the pilgrims ; it is these which I love and venerate in 
England. I should feel ashamed of an enthusiasm for 
Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it for a land like this. 
In an American it would seem to me degenerate and un- 
grateful, to hang with passion upon the traces of Homer 
and Virgil, and follow without emotion the nearer and 
plainer footsteps of Shakspeare and Milton; and I should 
think him cold in his love for his native land, who felt 
no melting in his heart for that other native land, which 
holds the ashes of his forefathers. 



EXERCISE XLII. 
HISTORY. 

The instructive lesson of history, teaching by exam- 
ple, can nowhere be studied with more profit, or with a 
better promise, than in the revolutionary period of Amer- 
ica ; and especially by us, who sit under the tree our 
fathers have planted, enjoy its shade, and are nourished 
by its fruits. But little is our merit, or gain, that we 
applaud their deeds, unless we emulate their virtues. 
Love of country was in them an absorbing principle, an 
undivided feeling ; not of a fragment, a section, but of the 
whole country. Union was the arch on which they 
raised the strong tower of a nation's independence. Let 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 61 

the arm be palsied that would loosen one stone in the basis 
of this fair structure, or mar its beauty ; the tongue mute 
that would dishonor their names, by calculating the 
value of that which they deemed without price. 

They have left us an example already inscribed in the 
world's memory; an example portentous to the aims of 
tyranny in every land; an example that will console in 
all ages the drooping aspirations of oppressed humanity. 
They have left us a written charter, as a legacy, and as 
a guide to our course. But every day convinces us that 
a written charter may become powerless. Ignorance 
may misinterpret it; ambition may assail, and faction 
destroy its vital parts ; and aspiring knavery may at last 
sing its requiem on the tomb of departed liberty. It is 
the spirit which lives; in this is our safety and our 
hope, — the spirit of our fathers : and while this dwells 
deeply in our remembrance, and its flame is cherished, 
ever burning, ever pure, on the altar of our hearts ; 
while it incites us to think as they have thought, and 
to do as they have done, the honor and the praise will 
be ours, to have preserved unimpaired the rich inherit- 
ance which they so nobly achieved. 



EXERCISE XLIII. 
INDIVIDUAL ENERGY AND ACTION. 

The principle of individual intelligence, ingenuity, and 
resolution, pervading the people of New England, is cover- 
ing the land with its monuments and trophies. In every 
form in which skill can combine with labor, — mechan- 
ism, in the infinite applications of science and processes 
of art, in patient researches into nature, and in all de- 
partments of mental activity ; in solitary adventure, or 
in associated companies, religious, moral, political, or 
financial, — directing the resources of multitudes with 
the accuracy and efficiency of a single intelligence and 
will, — it is working incalculable effects. 

It turns barrenness into fertility, straightens the wind- 
ing and crooked paths, smooths down every rugged ob- 
stacle, accelerates speed, reduces cost, multiplies busi- 
ness, creates wealth, draws useless rivers from their 



62 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

ancient beds into navigable and secure artificial chan- 
nels, awakens the hum of inventive, animated, and well- 
rewarded industry, along the banks of every descending 
stream, opens with its touch the bosom of the earth to 
give forth its mineral treasures, converts the ice of our 
northern lakes into a most welcome article of world-wide 
commerce, and sinking its quarries into the bare and 
desolate mountains, manipulates the shapeless granite 
into forms of architectural grace and beauty, and spreads 
them in classic colonnades and lofty structures along the 
streets of distant cities. 

Sons of New England ! your ancestors relied on the 
power of their own arms; upon their own ingenuity, 
skill, personal industry and enterprise. They never 
looked, for the chief blessings of life, to the government. 
They did not expect that freedom, prosperity, or hap- 
piness, were to be secured to their posterity by legisla- 
tion, or any form of political administration ; but they 
planted the seed which was to bear the precious fruits, 
in the awakened, enlightened, and invigorated mental 
energies of their descendants. For this, they provided 
their system of universal education ; and, if you would 
be worthy of your ancestry, you must do likewise. 

Look not to legislation, or to official patronage, or to 
any public resources or aids, to make yourselves or your 
children prosperous, powerful and happy. But trust 
to your and their energy of character, and enlightened 
minds, and persevering enterprise and industry. Cherish 
these traits, and they will work out in the future the 
same results as in the past The earth will everywhere 
blossom beneath you. You will be sure of exerting 
your rightful influence in every community. You will 
be placed beyond the reach of injustice and oppression. 
Rash and weak counsels may involve the foreign rela- 
tions of the confederacy ; short-sighted or perverse legis- 
lation may do its worst to embarrass your interests ; but 
if you resolutely apply your own resources of industry, 
skill, and enterprise, to circumstances as they rise, you 
will be able to turn them to your advantage, and the 
great essential of democratic sovereignty will be guaran- 
tied to you, the pursuit and attainment of individual 
happiness and prosperity. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 63 

EXERCISE XLIV. 
AN APPEAL IN EEHALF OF CLINTON. 

Envy has sometimes denied the paramount merit of 
Clinton in the great enterprise of the Erie Canal. But 
the question is not whether he first made the suggestion 
of a navigable communication between the lakes and 
the Hudson. It is a fact of historic certainty, that the 
adoption, the prosecution, and the accomplishment of 
that gigantic undertaking, were owing mainly to his 
convincing statements, his vast influence, and indomi- 
table perseverance. What other man was there then, 
or has there been since, who would have accomplished 
the same ? Who that has watched the course of events 
in Xew York, and the fluctuations of party legislation 
on this very subject — the canal — but may well ques- 
tion, whether, without the agency just named, it would 
to this day have been begun? To Clinton, then, as 
an honored instrument in higher hands, be the praise 
awarded ! 

Citizens of this imperial state, whose numerical power 
the canal has doubled, and whose wealth it has aug- 
mented in a ratio that defies estimation, cherish and per- 
petuate his name ! You enjoy the rich fruits which his 
foresight anticipated, and his toils secured. Let him 
rest no longer in an undistinguished grave. True, a 
name like Clinton's cannot die ! It is written on that 
long, deep line with which he channelled the broad 
bosom of his native state : it is heard at every watery 
stair, as the floating burden sinks or rises with the gush- 
ing stream ; it is borne on each of the thousand boats 
that make the long inland voyage ; and it shines, en- 
twined with Fulton's, on all the steam-towed fleets of 
barges which sweep, in almost continuous train, the sur- 
face of the Hudson. But these are the traces of his own 
hand. It is your duty and privilege to record it too. 
Engrave it, then, in ever-during stone. Embody your 
sense of his merits in the massive pile. From the loftiest 
height of beautiful Greenwood let the structure rise, 
a beacon at once to the city and the sea. Severe in 
beauty and grand in proportions, it should be emblem- 



64 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

atical of the man and of his works. Such a monument 
will be a perpetual remembrance of Clinton's name, and 
of his inappreciable services ; and will stand for ages, 
the fit expression of your gratitude and of his glory. 



EXERCISE XLV. 
DEATH OF ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 

The jubilee of America is turned into mourning. Its 
joy is mingled with sadness; its silver trumpet must 
breathe a mingled strain. Henceforward and forever, 
while America exists among the nations of the earth, 
the first emotion on the fourth of July shall be of joy 
and triumph in the great event which immortalizes the 
day ; the second shall be one of chastised and tender 
recollection of the venerable men who departed on the 
morning of the jubilee. This mingled emotion of tri- 
umph and sadness has sealed the moral beauty and 
sublimity of our great anniversary. In the simple com- 
memoration of a victorious political achievement, there 
seems not enough to occupy all our purest and best feel- 
ings. The fourth of July was before a day of unshaded 
triumph, exultation, and national pride ; but the Angel 
of Death has mingled in the all-glorious pageant, to teach 
us we are men. Had our venerated fathers left us on 
any other day, the day of the united departure of two 
such men would henceforward have been remembered 
but as a day of mourning. But now, while their decease 
has gently chastened the exultations of the triumphant 
festival, the glad banner of our independence will wave 
cheerfully over the spot where their dust reposes. 

The whole nation feels, as with one heart, that since 
it must sooner or later have been bereaved of its revered 
fathers, it could not have wished that any other had 
been the day of their decease. Our anniversary festival 
was before triumphant ; it is now triumphant and sacred. 
It before called out the young and ardent to join in the 
public rejoicings; it now also speaks, in a touching 
voice, to the retired, to the gray-headed, to the mild 
and peaceful spirits, to the whole family of sober free- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 65 

men. With some appeal of joy, of admiration, of ten- 
derness, it henceforth addresses every American heart. 
It is henceforward, what the dying Adams pronounced 
it. a great and a good day. It is full of greatness and full 
of goodness. It is absolute and complete. The death 
of the men who declared our independence, — their death 
on the day of the jubilee, — was all that was wanting to 
the fourth of July. To die on that day, and to die to- 
gether, was all that was wanting to Jefferson and Adams. 



EXERCISE XLVI. 
THE INDIANS. 

When we were few and they were many, we were 
weak and they were strong, instead of driving us back 
into the sea, as they might have done at any time, they 
cherished our perilous infancy, and tendered to us the 
sacred emblems of peace. They gave us land, as much 
as we wanted, or sold it to us for the merest trifle. They 
permitted us quietly to clear up the wilderness, and to 
build habitations, and schoolhouses, and churches. And 
when everything began to smile around us, under the 
combined influence of industry, education, and religion, 
these savages did not come to us and say. "We want 
your houses ; we want your fine cultivated farms : you 
must move off. There is room enough for you beyond 
the western rivers, where you may settle down on a 
better soil, and begin anew." 

Nor, when we were strongly attached to our firesides, 
and to our fathers" sepulchres, did they say, " You are 
mere tenants at will : we own all the land: and if you 
insist upon staying longer, you must dissolve your gov- 
ernment, and submit to such laws as we choose to make 
for you." 

No, the Indian tribes of the seventeenth century knew 
nothing of these modern refinements ; they were no such 
adepts in the law of nature and nations. They allowed 
us to abide by our own council-fires, and to govern 
ourselves as we chose, when they could either have dis- 
possessed or subjugated us at pleasure. We did remain, 
6* 



66 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



and we gradually waxed rich and strong. We wanted 
more land, and they sold it to us at our own price. Still 
we were not satisfied. There was room enough to the 
west, and we advised them to move further back. If 
they took our advice, well. If not, we knew how to en- 
force it. And where are those once terrible nations now? 
Driven, alternately, by purchase and by conquest, from 
river to river, and from mountain to mountain, they have 
disappeared with their own gigantic forests; and we, 
their enlightened heirs at law and the sword, now plough 
up their bones with as much indifference as we do their 
arrows. Shall I name the Mohegans, the Pequots, the 
Iroquois, and the Mohawks? What has become of 
them, and of a hundred other independent nations which 
dwelt on this side of the Mississippi, when we landed at 
Plymouth and at Jamestown? Here and there, as at 
Penobscot, and Marshpee, and Oneida, you may see a 
diminutive and downcast remnant, wandering like 
troubled ghosts among the graves of their mighty pro- 
genitors. Our trinkets, our threats, our arms, our whis- 
key, our bribes, and our vices, have all but annihilated 
those vast physical and intellectual energies of a native 
population, which, for more than a hundred and fifty 
years, could make us quake and flee at pleasure, through- 
out all our northern, western, and southern borders. * 
$ * n? * Gone is the mighty warrior, the terrible 
avenger, 1 the heart-bursting orator ! Gone is the terror 
and glory of his nation ; and gone forever, from our elder 
states, are the red men, who, like Saul and Jonathan, 
"were swifter than eagles, and stronger than lions;" 
and who, with the light and advantages which we en- 
joy, might have rivalled us in wealth and power, in the 
senate and forum, as I am sure that they would have 
surpassed us in magnanimity and justice. 



EXERCISE XLVIL 
AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. 



Respected friends : — The occasion which has called 
us together, at this time, is one of no ordinary interest. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER, 67 

Again we have the pleasure of meeting those who are 
dear to us, not in the halls of mirth and gayety, not at 
the festive board, not where political strife has a ruling 
sway over the passions of man, but where youth, in all 
their simplicity and tenderness, meet to unfold the intel- 
lect, and cherish those virtues that sustain a nation's 
glory and a nation's prosperity. 

Expect not, kind friends, that we have invited you 
here to charm you with strains of eloquence, or to ex- 
hibit ourselves as masters of the art of speaking, but 
merely to witness the efforts of children. Long and 
hard have we labored, under the guidance of our teacher, 
to acquire a store of knowledge that shall fit us for use- 
fulness in after life. Much is due to the kind and per- 
severing efforts of him who has so earnestly labored to 
bring before you so many who are willing to take an 
active part in this evening's entertainment, and we sin- 
cerely hope that our exercises will not be wholly void 
of interest. 

We feel that our privileges have been great, and, if 
we have not made improvement, we shall be obliged to 
confess that we have been negligent of our duties, and 
inattentive to the instructions of our teacher, for we are 
sure that every reasonable effort has been made to ad- 
vance us in the path of usefulness and knowledge. But, 
we humbly trust, our time and our advantages have not 
been wholly misimproved, and that we shall on this 
occasion furnish some evidence to show that we have 
accomplished something. 

We would not, at this time, forget that kind Provi- 
dence which has watched over us during the past year, 
and which has so highly favored us and our dear friends. 
While our hearts are truly grateful for the continuance 
of life, and so many of life's blessings, let us hot forget 
that 

We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright, 
Like lamps that have served for a festal night ; 
We shall fall from our spheres, the old and strong, 
Like rose-leaves swept by the breeze along; 
The worshipped as gods in the olden day, 
We shall be like a vain dream, — passing away, 



68 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" Passing away ! " sing the breeze and rill, 

As they sweep on their course by vale and hill ; — 

Through the varying scenes of each earthly clime, 

? T is the lesson of nature, the voice of time, 

And man, at last, like his fathers gray, 

Writes in his own dust — " Passing away." 



EXERCISE XLVIII. 
THE EFFECTS OF DIVERSIFIED EMPLOYMENTS. 

In a country of few occupations, employments go down 
by an arbitrary, hereditary, coercive designation, with- 
out regard to peculiarities of individual character. The 
son of a priest is a priest ; the son of a barber is a bar- 
ber ; a man raises onions and garlic, because a certain 
other person did so when the Pyramids were building, 
centuries ago. But a diversified, advanced, and refined 
mechanical and manufacturing industry, cooperating 
with these other numerous employments of civilization 
which always surround it, offers the widest choice, de- 
tects the slightest shade of individuality, quickens into 
existence and trains to perfection the largest conceivable 
amount and the utmost possible variety of national 
mind. It goes abroad with its handmaid labors, not like 
the elegiac poet, into the churchyard, but among the 
bright tribes of living childhood and manhood, and finds 
there, in morelhan a figurative sense, some "mute, in- 
glorious Milton." to whom it gives a tongue and the op- 
portunity of fame ; the dauntless breast of some Hamp- 
den, still at play, yet born to strive with the tyrant of 
more than a village; infant hands that may one day 
sway the rod of empire: hearts already " pregnant with 
celestial fire;" future Arkwrights, and Watts, and Whit- 
neys, and Fultons, whom it leads forth to a discipline 
and a career that may work a revolution in the arts and 
commerce of the world. 

Here are five sons in a family. In some communities 
they would all become hedgers and ditchers ; in others, 
shore fishermen ; in others, hired men in the fields, or 
porters or servants in noblemen's families. But see what 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 69 

the diversified employments of civilization may make of 
them. One has a passion for contention, and danger, 
and adventure. There are the gigantic game of the sea, 
the vast fields of the Pacific, the pursuit even " beneath 
the frozen serpent of the South," for him. Another has a 
taste for trade ; he plays already at bargains and barter. 
There are Wall-street and Milk-street, and clerkships 
and agencies at Manilla, and Canton, and Rio Janeiro, 
for him. A third early and seriously inclines to the 
quiet life, the fixed habits, the hereditary opinions, and 
old ways, of his fathers ; there is the plough for him. 

Another develops, from infancy, extraordinary me- 
chanical and inventive talent ; extraordinary in degree, 
of not yet ascertained direction. You see it in his first 
whittling. There may be a Fulton, or an Arkwright; 
there may be wrapped up the germs of an idea, which, 
realized, shall change the industry of nations, and give 
a new name to a new era. Well, there are the machine 
shops at Lowell and Providence for him ; there are cot- 
ton mills and woollen mills for him to superintend ; there 
is stationary and locomotive steam power for him to 
guide and study ; of a hundred departments and forms 
of useful art, some one will surely reach and feed the 
ruling intellectual passion. In the flashing eye, beneath 
the pale and beaming brow of that other one, you detect 
the solitary first thoughts of genius. There are the sea- 
shore of storm or calm, the waning moon, the stripes of 
summer evening cloud, traditions, and all the food of the 
soul, for him. And so all the boys are provided for. 
Every fragment of mind is gathered up. Nothing is lost. 
Every taste, every faculty, every peculiarity of mental 
power, finds its task, does it, and is made the better 
for it. 

EXERCISE XLIX. 
OUR DUTY AS CITIZENS. 

In that unceasing march of things, which calls for- 
ward the successive generations of men to perform their 
part on the stage of life, we at length are summoned to 
appear. Our fathers have passed their hour c f visita- 



70 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

tion; — how worthily, let the growth and prosperity of 
our happy land, and the security of our firesides, attest. 
Or, if this appeal be too weak to move us, let the elo- 
quent silence of yonder venerated heights,^ — let the 
column which is there rising in simple majesty, — recall 
their venerated forms, as they toiled, in the hasty 
trenches, through the dreary watches of that night of 
expectation, heaving up the sods, where they lay, in 
peace and in honor, ere the following sun had set. The 
turn has come to us. The trial of adversity was theirs ; 
the trial of prosperity is ours. Let us meet it as men 
who know their duty, and prize their blessings. Our 
position is the most enviable, the most responsible, which 
men can fill. If this generation does its duty, the cause 
of constitutional freedom is safe. If we fail ; if we fail ; 
— not only do we defraud our children of the inheritance 
which we received from oift fathers, but we blast the 
hopes of the friends of liberty throughout our continent, 
throughout Europe, throughout the world, to the end of 
time. 

History is not without her examples of hard-fought 
fields, where the banner of liberty has floated triumph- 
antly on the wildest storm of battle. She is without her 
examples of a people by whom the dear-bought treasure 
has been wisely employed and safely handed down. 
The eyes of the world are turned for that example to us. 
It is related, by an ancient historian, of that Brutus who 
slew Caesar, that he threw himself on his sword, after 
the disastrous battle of Philippi, with the bitter exclama- 
tion, that he had followed virtue as a substance, but 
found it a name. It is not too much to say, that there 
are, at this moment, noble spirits in the elder world, 
who are anxiously watching the march of our institu- 
tions, to learn whether liberty, as they have been told, 
is a mockery, a pretence, and a curse, or a blessing, for 
which it becomes them to brave the rack, the scaffold, 
and the scimitar. 

Let us, then, as we assemble, on the birthday of the 
nation, as we gather upon the green turf once wet with 
precious blood, let us devote ourselves to the sacred 

* Bunker's Hill. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 71 

cause of constitutional liberty. Let us abjure the in- 
terests and passions which divide the great family of 
American freemen. Let the rage of party spirit sleep 
to-day. Let us resolve, that our children shall have 
cause to bless the memory of their fathers, as we have 
cause to bless the memory of ours. 



EXERCISE L. 
OUR OBLIGATIONS. 

Let the sacred obligations which have devolved on 
this generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts. 
Those are daily dropping from among us, who estab- 
lished our liberty and our government. The great trust 
now descends to new hands. Let us apply ourselves to 
that which is presented to us as our appropriate object. 

We can win no laurels in a war of independence. 
Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all. 
Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon, and 
Alfred, and other founders of states. Our fathers have 
filled them. But there remains to us a great duty of 
defence and preservation ; and there is open to us, also, 
a noble pursuit, to which the spirit of the times strongly 
invites us. 

Our proper business is improvement. Let our age be 
the age of improvement. In a day of peace, let us ad- 
vance the arts of peace and the works of peace. Let us 
develop the resources of our land, call forth its powers, 
build up its institutions, promote all its great interests, 
and see whether we also, in our day and generation, 
may not perform something worthy to be remembered. 
Let us cultivate a true spirit of union and harmony. In 
pursuing the great objects which our condition points 
out to us, let us act under a settled conviction, and an 
habitual feeling, that these twenty-four states are one 
country. 

Let our conceptions be enlarged to the circles of our 
duties. Let us extend our ideas over the whole of the 
vast field in which we are called to act. Let our object 
be, our country, our whole country, and nothing but our 



72 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

country. And by the blessing of God, may that coun- 
try itself become a vast and splendid monument, not of 
oppression and terror, but of wisdom, of peace, and of 
liberty, upon which the world may gaze with admira- 
tion, forever ! 






EXERCISE LI. 
THE EDUCATION OF THE HEART. 






While the great powers of the mind — observation, 
comparison and reflection — are, and of right should be, 
the objects of school discipline, the great powers of the 
heart, springing from the sentiment of love, should not 
be neglected. That they are important, and important 
in the very first degree, cannot be doubted. They are 
the great basis of all true thought and action. "Keep 
thy heart with all diligence," says Solomon, "for out of 
it are the issues of life." The truly great men of the 
earth have been those whose mental abilities were 
strongly backed by great moral qualities ; that is, by 
unselfish, sincere, sympathetic, forbearing hearts. All 
mental greatness, unless thus based, is like the house 
which was built upon the sand, which the wind, and 
rain, and flood of worldly misfortune have uniformly 
washed unto its fall. I say uniformly, for however a 
man may apparently succeed by superior cunning and 
selfish tact, he will, in reality, be miserable, just in pro- 
portion as his heart is selfish and depraved. His misery 
will be none the less real because it is not apparent. It 
is in this view that the race of life is not always to the 
swift, nor its battle to the strong. Every opposition in 
this world goes down, in the long run, before the better 
feelings of the heart. It is the carefully educated heart 
which beats the carefully educated head. Both equally 
combined, however, form the perfect model of man. 

It is this deep sentiment of the heart, love, which is 
at the bottom of all great reforms, — the originating 
cause, — and is, in fact, the great basis of popular opinion. 
It is the true foundation of all good society, all real free- 
dom. Woman, — educated, refined, Christian woman, — 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 73 

is its guardian, I might say its personification, in society, 
and by her silent but deep example is ever giving a 
great impulse to its holy extension. When speaking of 
reforms, however, I do not mean by them all changes 
which may agitate the great surface of society — which 
come as the tornado of popular passion or prejudice, to 
avenge and destroy, to stamp conviction on every mind 
by force and fear. True reforms are as silent as they 
are deep. The great laws of the moral, as the physical 
world, move in sublime silence. Beneath the fury of the 
sea, when lashed by the tempest, the great under-current 
of the ocean flows on quietly and unheeded. While 
the earthquake is shaking a world to its centre, amid 
desolation and dismay, the noiseless, beautiful, irresist- 
ible principle of gravitation retains the rocking sphere in 
its orbit, and remains immutable and eternal amid pass- 
ing violence and change. *Thus, in society, there is a 
principle which is deeper than all outward agitation, a 
true feeling deeper than all outward passion, and that 
principle, that feeling, are moral ones, of and belonging 
to the heart. 

Of what boundless extent, depth, and value, then, is 
the human heart, as a subject of cultivation ! Who has 
ever estimated, who can ever estimate, its better capaci- 
ties, sympathies, generosities 1 Of what good cultivation 
is it not capable in its every relation of life, and of what 
bad, alas? From the heart have originated the most 
stirring appeals of patriotism, the most enthusiastic 
efforts for human freedom and happiness, the most self- 
sacrificing labors in every good cause. The greatest 
efforts of the mind have been warmed by it into life, 
spurred on by its better energies, and have finally re- 
ceived from that source, also, their most grateful rewards. 
If the effort of the mind becomes immortally bright, it 
is because the glowing heat of the heart is there. It is 
the heart which finally rebukes ambition, defeats cun- 
ning, disarms selfishness. By it, in the end, all causes 
are tried, all wrongs condemned, all grievances redressed. 
The lessons of history, the records of our own experience, 
teach us that we are to look to our hearts for the re- 
wards or punishments of life. Shakspeare has recorded 



74 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

a touching case of this experience, which, though partly 
imaginary, yet speaks the language of reality. The 
ruined cardinal says : — 

" Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my ting, he would not in my age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies." 

It was the heart of the courtier which so affectingly 
reminded him of the causes of his ruin — they were the 
true sympathies of his nature, which so piteously re- 
buked the vain ambition of his life. 



EXERCISE ZLII. 
THE COUNTRY OF WASHINGTON. 

Gentlemen, the spirit of human liberty and of free gov- 
ernment, nurtured and grown into strength and beauty 
in America, has stretched its course into the midst of the 
nations. Like an emanation from heaven, it has gone 
forth, and it will not return void. It must change, it is 
fast changing, the face of the earth. Our great, our high 
duty, is to show, in our own examples, that this spirit is 
a spirit of health as well as a spirit of power ; that its 
benignity is as great as its strength; that its efficiency 
to secure individual rights, social relations, and moral 
order, is equal to the irresistible force with which it 
prostrates principalities and powers. The world, at this 
moment, is regarding us with a willing, but something 
of a fearful admiration. Its deep and awful anxiety is to 
learn, whether free states may be stable as well as free; 
whether popular power may be trusted as well as feared; 
in short, whether wise, regular, and virtuous self-gov- 
ernment is a vision for the contemplation of theorists, or 
a truth, established, illustrated, and brought into practice, 
in the country of Washington. 

Gentlemen, for the earth which we inhabit, and the 
whole circle of the sun, for all the unborn races of man- 
kind, we seem to hold in our hands, for their weal or 
woe, the fate of this experiment. If we fail, who shall 
venture the repetition ? If our example shall prove to 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 75 

be one, not of encouragement, but of terror — not fit to 
be imitated, but fit only to be shunned — where else shall 
the world look for free models 1 If this great western 
sun be struck out of the firmament, at what other foun- 
tain shall the lamp of liberty hereafter be lighted ? 
What other orb shall emit a ray to glimmer, even, on 
the darkness of the world ? 

Gentlemen, there is no danger of our overrating, or 
overstating, the important part which we are now act- 
ing in human affairs. It should not flatter our personal 
self-respect, but it should reanimate our patriotic virtues, 
and inspire us with a deeper and more solemn sense, 
both of our privileges and of our duties. We cannot 
wish better for our country, nor for the world, than that 
the same spirit which influenced Washington may influ- 
ence all who succeed him : and that the same blessing 
from above which attended his efforts may also attend 
theirs. 



EXERCISE LIE. 
INDIVIDUAL ACTION. 

The great lesson which I would teach you is, — that 
it depends mainly on each individual what part he will 
bear in the accomplishment of this great work. It is to 
be done by somebody. In a quiet order of things, the 
stock of useful knowledge is not only preserved but aug- 
mented ; and each generation improves on that which 
went before. It is true there have been periods, in the 
history of the world, when tyranny at home, or invasion 
from abroad, has so blighted and blasted the condition 
of society, that knowledge has perished with one gene- 
ration faster than it could be learned by another ; and 
whole nations have sunk from a condition of improve- 
ment to one of ignorance and barbarity, sometimes in a 
very few years. But no such dreadful catastrophe is 
now to be feared. Those who come after us will not 
only equal but surpass their predecessors. The existing 
arts will be improved, science will be carried to new 
heights, and the great heritage of useful knowledge will 
go down unimpaired and augmented. 



76 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But it is all to be shared out anew ; and it is for each 
man to say, what part he will gain in the glorious pat- 
rimony. 

When the rich man is called from the possession of 
his treasures, he divides them as he will among his chil- 
dren and heirs. But Providence, the stern agrarian, deals 
not so with the living treasures of the mind. There are 
children just growing up in the bosom of obscurity, in 
town and in country, who have inherited nothing but 
poverty and health, who will in a few years be striving 
in stern contention with the great intellects of the land. 
Our system of free schools has opened a straight way 
from the threshold of every abode, however humble, in 
the village or in the city, to the high places of usefulness, 
v influence, and honor. And it is left for each, by the 
cultivation of every talent; by watching with an eagle's 
eye for every chance of improvement ; by bounding for- 
ward like a greyhound, at the most distant glimpse of 
honorable opportunity ; by grappling, as with hooks of 
steel, to the prize when it is won ; by redeeming time, 
defying temptation, and scorning sensual pleasure, to 
make himself useful, honored and happy. 



EXERCISE LIV. 
THE MAN OF EXPEDIENTS. 

The man of expedients is he who, never providing for 
the little mishaps and stitch-droppings with which this 
mortal life is pestered, and too indolent or too ignorant 
to repair them in the proper way, passes his days in 
inventing a succession of devices, pretexts, substitutes, 
plans and commutations, by the help of which he thinks 
he appears as well as other people. 

Look through the various professions and characters 
of life. You will there see men of expedients darting, 
and shifting, and glancing, like fishes in the stream. If 
a merchant, the man of expedients borrows incontinently 
at two per cent, a month ; if a sailor, he stows his hold 
with jury-masts, rather than ascertain if his ship be sea- 
worthy ; if a visitor where he dislikes, he is called out 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 77 

before the evening has half expired ; if a musician, he 
scrapes on a fiddle-string of silk ; if an actor, he takes 
his stand within three feet of the prompter ; if a poet, 
he makes fault rhyme with ought, and look with spoke ; 
if a reviewer, he fills up three quarters of his article with 
extracts from the writer whom he abuses ; if a divine, 
he leaves ample room in every sermon for an exchange 
of texts ; if a physician, he is often seen galloping at full 
speed, nobody knows where ; if a debtor, he has a mar- 
vellous acquaintance with short corners and dark alleys ; 
if a printer, he is adroit at scabbarding ; if a collegian, 
he commits Euclid and Locke to memory without under- 
standing them, interlines his Greek, and writes themes 
equal to the Rambler. 

But it is in the character of a general scholar that the 
man of expedients most shines. He ranges through all 
the arts and sciences — in cyclopaedias. He acquires a 
most thorough knowledge of classical literature — from 
translations. He is very extensively read — in title-pages. 
He obtains an exact acquaintance with authors — from 
reviews. He follows all literature up to its sources — in 
tables of contents. His researches are indefatigable — 
into indexes. He quotes memoriter with astonishing 
facility — the dictionary of quotations ; — and his biblio- 
graphical familiarity is miraculous — with Dibdin. 

We are sorry to say, that our men of expedients are 
to be sometimes discovered in the region of morality. 
There are those who claim the praise of a good action, 
when they have acted merely from convenience, incli- 
nation, or compulsion. There are those who make a 
show of industry, when they are set in motion only by 
avarice. There are those who are quiet and peaceable, 
only because they are sluggish. There are those who 
are sagely silent, because they have not one idea ; abste- 
mious, from repletion ; patriots, because they are ambi- 
tious ; perfect, because there is no temptation. 

But let us come down a little lower into life. Who 
appears so well and so shining at a ball-room as the man 
of expedients 1 Yet his small-clothes are borrowed, and 
as for his knee-buckles — about as ill-matched as if one 
had belonged to his hat and the other to a galoche — to 
7* 



78 THE AMEKICAN SPEAKER. 

prevent their difference being detected, he stands sidewise 
towards his partner. Nevertheless, the circumstance 
makes him a more vivacious dancer, since by the rapid- 
ity of his motions he prevents a too curious examination 
from the spectators. 

Search further into his dress. You will find that he 
very genteelly dangles one glove. There are five pins 
about him, and as many buttons gone, or button-holes 
broken. His pocket-book is a newspaper. His fingers 
are his comb, and the palm of his hand his clothes-brush. 
He conceals his antiquated linen by the help of a close 
vest, and adroitly claps a bur on the rent hole of his 
stocking, while walking to church. 

Follow him home. Behold his felicitous knack of 
metamorphosing all kinds of furniture into all kinds of 
furniture. A brick constitutes his right andiron, and a 
stone his left. His bellows is his hearth-brush, and a 
hat his bellows, and that, too, borrowed from a broken 
window-pane. He shaves himself without a looking- 
glass, by the sole help of imagination. He sits down 
on a table. His fingers are his snuffers. He puts his 
candlestick into a chair. That candlestick is a decan- 
ter. That decanter was borrowed. That borrowing 
was without leave. He drinks wine out of a tumbler. 
A fork is his cork-screw. His wine-glass he converts 
into a standish. 

Very ingenious is he in the whole business of writing 
a letter. For that purpose he makes use of three-eighths 
of a sheet of paper. His knees are his writing-desk. 
His ruler is a book cover, and his pencil a spoon handle. 
He mends his pen with a pair of scissors. He dilutes his 
ink with water, till it is reduced to invisibility. He uses 
ashes for sand. He seals his letter with the shreds and 
relics of his wafer-box. His seal is a pin. 

O hearer, if you have smiled at any part of the fore- 
going representation, let it be to some purpose. There 
is no fault we are all so apt to indulge as that into 
which we are pushed by the ingenuity of indolence — 
namely, the invention of expedients. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 79 

EXERCISE LV. 
WOMAN. 

Men are the realities, women the poetry, of this world. 
Men are the trees ; women, the fruitage and flower. The 
former delight in a rude soil — they strike their roots 
downward with a perpetual effort; and heave their 
proud branches upward, in perpetual strife. Are they 
to be removed? — you must tear up the very earth with 
their roots, — rock, and ore, and impurity, — or they per- 
ish. They cannot be translated with safety. Something 
of their home, a little of their native soil, must cling to 
them forever, or they die. Not so with woman. Give 
her but air and sky enough, and she will seek no nour- 
ishment of the earth, strike no roots downward, urge no 
sceptre upward, but content herself with shedding light 
and cheerfulness on every side of her — flowers and per- 
fume on everything she touches. Would you remove 
her — you have only to unclasp a few green delicate 
fibres, to scatter a few blossoms, and shake off a few 
large drops — like the rain-drops of a summer shower — 
and lo ! she is ready to depart with you whithersoever 
you may go. She does not cling to her native soil ; she 
does not yearn for a native earth ; all that she needs 
anywhere is something to grow to. 

Her vitality is untouched, her sympathies are unhurt, 
by the influences of a new sky or a strange air. It may 
be, that in her youth her blossoming was about the door- 
way of a cottage ; it may be that she is now transplanted 
to a palace — made to breathe the hot and crowded air, to 
bask in the artificial sunshine, of a city — in shadow, and 
smoke, and a most exaggerating atmosphere. But even 
there she is happy ; she carries her home with her ; and 
though what she clings to may sicken at the heart, and 
perish at the roots, for lack of its native air, she will put 
forth her beauty, and scatter her perfume, as before. 

These things are easily said; but are they true? We 
are liable to be carried away by poetry, and metaphor, 
and illustration ; but what do they prove ? Why should 
it be more difficult to describe the women than the men 
of a small neighborhood, of a remote parish, or of a large 



80 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

country ? Try the experiment yourself. Go to the first 
church that you see open, or to any other place where 
you may meet a multitude of women gathered together. 
Try to give a general idea of their dress, — nay, try to 
give anybody a general idea of part of it, —of the fashion 
of their bonnets. You will find the hats of the men all 
alike ; but of the bonnets, you will seldom or never see 
two alike in the whole house — I might say on the face 
of the whole earth. Such is the \ery nature of woman; 
quick, apt, sensible and precipitate ; with an eye for color 
that men have not, with an ear for music that men have 
not, and with a taste for shape that shows itself in every- 
thing she wears, and in everything she builds up. A 
woman studies change and variety ; it is reproach to 
her to dress alike — I do not say to be alike — for twenty- 
four hours at a time. She would blush to be caught 
twice a year at a ball in the same, or in a similar dress. 
And when it may not be in her power to put on a new 
robe every day, it is the study of a large part of her life 
to appear to do so ; to multiply and vary, by all sorts of 
contrivances, the few that she may have ; — now by 
altering the shape, now by giving it a new dye, now by 
changing the ribbons, or a flounce, or a furbelow, and 
now it may be by converting slips into frocks, or frocks 
into slips, or both into spencers or riding-habits : all of 
which a woman may do from her youth up, yet more 
from love of change than from her secret wish to appear 
better off than she is. And so with not a few of our men. 
The more youthful they are. the more sensitive they are, 
the more like women they are, the more changeable and 
capricious they are. But why should I complain of this ? 
I do not ; I only mention the fact to show how difficult 
it is to give another a general idea of the character of a 
body of women. Before the hue is copied, it has altered. 
Before the outline is finished, it is no longer the same. 
You are in pursuit of the rainbow ; you are describing 
a changeable landscape under the drifting clouds of a 
changeable sky; you are after a bird of paradise, a 
feather, a butterfly, 

And every touch, that woos its stay, 
Brushes its brightest hues away. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 81 

But is this to complain ? — if I say that flowers are not 
trees, that fruitage is not rock, that women are not men ; 
what say I more than everybody, women as well as men, 
should delight to acknowledge 7 Are we to be imprisoned 
forever and aye with realities ? Are we to live under a 
marble firmament, because, forsooth, a marble firmament 
may have more stability ? Are we, who live in the very 
midst of change and fluctuation, who are never the same 
more than two minutes together, who see all the ele- 
ments circulating forever and ever within and around us, 
through all the vicissitudes of shadow and light, and 
youth and age ; are we to speak irreverently of her, 
who, by the greater fineness and greater purity of her 
corporeal texture, is made more sensible than we to the 
influences of sky, and air, and sea, and earth? As well 
might we deride the perfume of the flower, and the hue 
of the wild rose, or the songs of birds, or the flavor of 
a peach, for not being as fixed and immutable as the 
very earth we tread on. Are we to speak slightingly of 
that, which, with all its changes, and through all its 
changes, is still woman ; the witchery and power, the 
pulse and the life-blood, of our being? Let us remem- 
ber that the charm of the very sky is its changeableness; 
of the very earth, is its being never the same for a long 
while together ; of the very sea and air, that they change 
at every breath you draw, and with every word you 
speak. Let us remember that the character of her who 
is appointed to be our companion forever, here and here- 
after, — 

Like sunshine in the rill, 

Though turned astray, is sunshine still. 



EXERCISE LVI. 
SELF-CONCEIT. 

[Spoken by a very small Boy.\ 

When boys are exhibiting in public, the politeness or 
curiosity of the hearers frequently induces them to in- 
quire the names of the performers. To save the trouble 
of answers, so far as relates to myself, my name is 



82 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Charles Chatterbox. I was born in this town ; and have 
grown to my present enormous stature without any arti- 
ficial help. It is true, I eat, drink, and sleep, and take 
as much care of my noble self as any young man about; 
but I am a monstrous great student. There is no telling 
the half of what I have read. 

Why, what do you think of the Arabian Tales'? 
Truth ! every word truth ! There 's the story of the 
lamp, and of Rook's eggs as big as a meeting-house. 
And there is the history of Sinbad the Sailor. I have 
read every word of them. And I have read Tom 
Thumb's folio through, Winter Evening Tales, and 
Seven Champions, and Parismus and Parismenus, and 
Valentine and Orson, and Mother Bunch, and Seven Wise 
Masters, and a curious book, entitled " Think well on 't." 

Then there is another wonderful book, containing fifty 
reasons why an old bachelor was not married. The first 
was, that nobody would have him ; and the second was, 
he declared to everybody that he would not marry ; and 
so it went on, stronger and stronger. Then, at the close 
of the book, it gives an account of his marvellous death 
and burial. And, in the appendix, it tells about his being 
ground over, and coming out as young, and as fresh, 
and as fair as ever. Then, every few pages, is a pic- 
ture of him to the life. 

I have also read Robinson Crusoe, and Reynard the 
Fox, and Moll Flanders ; and I have read twelve delight- 
ful novels, and Irish Rogues, and Life of Saint Patrick; 
and Philip Quarle, and Conjuror Crop, and iEsop's 
Fables, and Laugh and be Fat, and Toby Lumpkin's 
Elegy on the Birth of a Child, and a Comedy on the 
Death of his Brother, and an Acrostic, occasioned by a 
mortal sickness of his dear wife, of which she recovered. 
This famous author wrote a treatise on the Rise and 
Progress of Vegetation ; and a whole Body of Divinity 
he comprised in four lines. 

I have read all the works of Pero Gilpin, whose mem- 
ory was so extraordinary that he never forgot the hours 
of eating and sleeping. This Pero was a rare lad. Why, 
he could stand on his head, as if it were a real pedestal ; 
his feet he used for drumsticks. He was trumpeter to 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 83 

the foot guards in Queen Betty's time; and, if he had 
not blown his breath away, might have lived to this day. 

Then, I have read the history of a man who married 
for money, and of a woman that would wear her hus- 
band's small-clothes m spite of him; and I have read 
four books of riddles and rebuses ; and all that is not 
half a quarter. 

Now, what signifies reading so much, if one can't tell 
of it ? In thinking over these things, I am sometimes so 
lost in company, that I don't hear anything that is said, 
till some one pops out that witty saying, "A penny for 
your thoughts." Then I say, to be sure, I was thinking 
of a book I had been reading. Once, in this mood, I 
came very near swallowing my cup and saucer ; and, 
another time,, was upon the very point of taking down 
a punch-bowl, that held a gallon. Now, if I could 
fairly have gotten them down, they would not have 
hurt me a jot; for my mind is capacious enough for a 
china-shop. There is no choking a man of my reading. 
Why, if my mind can contain Genii and Giants, sixty 
feet high, and enchanted castles, why not a punch-bowl 
and a whole tea-board ? 

It was always conjectured that I should be a mon- 
strous great man ; and I believe, as much as I do the 
Mexican war, that I shall be a perfect Brobdignag, in 
time. 

Well now, do you see, when I have read a book, I go 
right off into the company of the ladies : for they are the 
judges whether a man knows anything or not. Then 
I introduce a subject which will show my parts to the 
best advantage; and I always mind to say a smart thing 
just before I quit. 

You must know, moreover, that I have learned a 
great deal of wit. I was the first man who invented all 
that people say about tongues, and sounds, and maybe's. 
I invented the wit of kissing a candlestick when a lady 
holds it, and also the plays of criminal and cross-ques- 
tion; and, above all, 'I invented the wit of paying toll at 
bridges. In short, ladies and gentlemen, take me all in 
all, I am a downright curious fellow. 






84 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LVII. 
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 

Just one mile two furlongs and seven rods from my 
grandfather's house, on a sightly hill, called Mount 
Pleasant, stood the abode of Jonathan Oldbug, my father, 
in whose spacious but decaying mansion I spent part of 
my time ; for I would not have the reader imagine that 
my parents were always so negligent as to leave me 
perpetually to write rebuses with my Uncle Gideon, or 
to eat turn-overs from the hand of my Aunt Hannah. 

My father was a tall, stately man, with one good coat, 
which he kept to wear to meeting ; one decent pair of 
shoes, which lasted, in my memory, seven years ; one 
cotton shirt, with a linen collar to it, — and he was 
sometimes compelled to lie in bed, in order that it might 
be washed. He dwelt in a large house, whose exterior, 
though not splendid, was much preferable to some of 
the rooms within ; it was surrounded with a white 
fence, with some of the parts broken down, a front gate 
swung upon one hinge, several of the window-panes 
were broken, on two of the front windows hung two 
shattered blinds, which had once been green, and before 
the house, as you entered the garden, grew two spacious 
lime trees, forming a grateful shade. As you entered 
the house, you came to a large, massy, oak door, big 
enough to be the gate of a castle, with an iron knocker 
on it, shaped for a lion, but looking more like a dog; 
and having entered the building, you saw a front entry, 
the paper torn and colored by the rain ; on your left 
hand was one room covered with a carpet, containing 
an eight-day clock, reaching from the floor to the ceil- 
ing, and telling the age of the moon ; the other furniture 
passable ; but the rest of the rooms in a condition which 
I blush to name. There, in this stately mansion, dwelt 
my venerable sire, who might justly be denominated a 
poor gentleman ; that is, he was a gentleman in his own 
estimation, and poor in the esteem of everybody else. 

My father was a man of expedients, and had spent his 
whole life, and exhausted all his ingenuity, in that adroit 
presentation of pretences, which, in common speech, is 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 85 

called keeping up appearances. In this art he was really 
skilful ; and I often suspected then, and have really con- 
cluded since, if he had turned half the talent to procur- 
ing an honest livelihood, which he used to slobber over 
his ill-dissembled poverty, it would have been better for 
his soul and body both. He was a man that never told 
a lie, unless it was to keep up appearances. 

I hope none who hear me have been reduced to the 
miserable necessity of tying up their pantaloons with 
pack-thread, instead of lawful suspenders ; of using a 
remnant of a pillow-case for a pocket-handkerchief; of 
sticking a bur on their rent stocking to cover up a hole; 
and after slitting their worn pantaloons on the knee, 
when they had got half way to meeting on the Sabbath, 
of being obliged to tie a pretended pocket-handkerchief 
over a pretended wound, seeming to be lame, and per- 
haps before they had walked ten rods, forgetting in 
which leg the lameness was seated. No, these are the 
incommunicable sorrows of me, — of me, the sad hero of 
a sad family — the prince and heir-apparent to the ragged 
generation. 

To me, and to me alone, was reserved the awful des- 
tiny of being invited to a party where were to assemble 
the first beauties of a country village — not daring to go 
until evening, lest the light of heaven should expose a 
thread-bare coat — having no clean shirt — not even a 
dickey which had not been worn ten times — supplying 
its place with a piece of writing paper -— afraid to turn 
my head, lest the paper should rattle or be displaced — 
and then, just as a poor wretch was exulting in the hope 
that the stratagems of poverty were to pass undetected, 
to have a lady, perhaps the youngest and most beautiful 
in the whole party, come provokingly near, and beg to 
examine your collar, because she admires the pattern. 
Often has it been my lot to return from the company, 
where all hearts seemed to bound with gladness, to wa- 
ter my couch with tears, amid sorrows which I could 
tell to none, and with which none would sympathize. 
I thought it poverty. But I was mistaken. It was 
something else which begins with a P. 
8 



86 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LVIII. 
FOUNDATION OF NATIONAL CHARACTER. 

How is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and 
animated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its 
own historic recollections ? Are we to be eternally ring- 
ing the changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and 
going back to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin 
of the exemplars of patriotic virtue 1 I thank God that 
we can find them nearer home, in our own country, on 
our own soil ; — that strains of the noblest sentiment that 
ever swelled in the breast of man are breathing to us 
out of every page of our country's history, in the native 
eloquence of our mother tongue; — that the colonial and 
provincial councils of America exhibit to us models of 
the spirit and character which gave Greece and Rome 
their name and their praise among the nations. Here 
we ought to go for our instruction; — the lesson is plain, 
it is clear, it is applicable. When we go to ancient his- 
tory, we are bewildered with the difference of manners 
and institutions. We are willing to pay our tribute of 
applause to the memory of Leonidas, who fell nobly for 
his country in the face of his foe. But when we trace 
him to his home, we are confounded at the reflection, 
that the same Spartan heroism to which he sacrificed 
himself at Thermopylae would have led him to tear his 
own child, if it had happened to be a sickly babe, — the 
very object for which all that is kind and good in man 
rises up to plead, — from the bosom of its mother, and 
carry it out to be eaten by the wolves of Taygetus. We 
feel a glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at 
Marathon by the ten thousand champions of invaded 
Greece ; but we cannot forget that the tenth part of the 
number were slaves, unchained from the workshop and 
door-post of their masters, to go and fight the battles of 
freedom. I do not mean that these examples are to de- 
stroy the interest with which we read the history of an- 
cient times ; they possibly increase that interest by the 
very contrast they exhibit. But they do warn us, if we 
need the warning, to seek our great practical lessons of 
patriotism at home ; out of the exploits and sacrifices of 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 87 

which our own country is the theatre ; out of the char- 
acters of our own fathers. Them we know, — the high- 
souled, natural, unaffected, the citizen heroes. We 
know what happy firesides they left for the cheerless 
camp. We know with what pacific habits they dared 
the perils of the field. There is no mystery, no romance, 
no madness, under the name of chivalry, about them. 
It is all resolute, manly resistance, for conscience and 
liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power, 
but of all the force of long-rooted habits and native love 
of order and peace. 



EXERCISE LIX. 
THE RULING PASSION. 

Without one word from the historian, and only by 
studying a people's relics, and investigating the figura- 
tive expressions in their literature and law, one might 
see reflected, as from a mirror, the moral scale on which 
they arranged their ideas of good and great. Though 
history should not record a single line in testimony of 
the fact, yet who, a thousand years hence, could fail to 
read, in their symbols, in their forms of speech, and in 
the technical terms of their law, the money-getting, 
money- worshipping tendencies of all commercial nations, 
during the last and the present centuries ? The word 
" sovereign/' we know, means a potentate invested with 
lawful dignity and authority; and it implies subjects 
who are bound to honor and obey. Hence, in Great 
Britain, a gold coin, worth twenty shillings, is called a 
'•sovereign;" and happy is the political sovereign who 
enjoys such plenitude of power and majesty, and has so 
many loyal and devoted subjects, as this vicegerent of 
royalty. An ancient English coin was called an angel. 
Its value was only ten shillings, and yet it was named 
after a messenger from heaven. In the Scriptures, and 
in political law, a crown is the emblem and personifica- 
tion of might and majesty, of glory and blessedness. 
The synonyme of all these is a piece of silver worth six 
shillings and seven pence. As the king has his repre- 



88 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

sentative in a sovereign, so a duke has his in a ducat, — 
the inferior value of the latter corresponding with the 
inferior dignity of its archetype. As Napoleon was con- 
sidered the mightiest ruler that France ever knew, so, for 
many years, her highest coin was called a Napoleon ; 
though now, in the French mint, they strike double-Na- 
poleons. God grant that the world may never see a 
double-Napoleon of flesh and blood! Our forefathers 
subjected themselves to every worldly privation for the 
sake of liberty, — and when they had heroically en- 
dured toil and sacrifice for eight long years, and at last 
achieved the blessing of independence, they showed their 
veneration for the Genius of Liberty by placing its image 
and superscription — upon a cent ! 

So, too, in our times, epithets the most distinctively 
sacred are tainted with cupidity. Mammon is not satis- 
fied with the heart- worship of his devotees : he has stolen 
the very language of the Bible and the Liturgy ; and the 
cardinal words of the sanctuary have become the busi- 
ness phraseology of bankers, exchange-brokers, and law- 
yers. The word "good," as applied to character, origi- 
nally meant benevolent, virtuous, devout, pious; — now, 
in the universal dialect of traffic and credit, a man is 
technically called good who pays his notes at maturity ; 
and thus, this almost divine epithet is transferred from 
those who laid up their treasures in heaven, to such as 
lay up their treasures on earth. The three days' res- 
pite which the law allows for the payment of a promis- 
sory note, or bill of exchange, after the stipulated period 
has expired, is called " grace," in irreverent imitation of 
the sinner's chance for pardon. On the performance of 
a broken covenant, by which a mortgaged estate is saved 
from forfeiture, it is said, in the technical language of 
the law, to be saved by " redemption." The document 
by which a deceased man's estate is bequeathed to his 
survivors is called a testament; and were the glad 
tidings of the New Testament looked for as anxiously as 
are the contents of a rich man's last will and testament, 
there would be no further occasion for the Bible Societies. 
Indeed, on opening some of our law-books, and casting 
the eye along the running- titles at the top of the pages, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 89 

or on the marginal notes, and observing the frequent re- 
currence of such words as "covenant-broken," " grace," 
"redemption," "testament," and so forth, one might 
very naturally fall into the mistake of supposing the 
book to be a work on theology, instead of the law of 
real estate or bank stock. 



EXERCISE LX. 
WHY DO NOT OUR COMMON SCHOOLS ACCOMPLISH MORE? 

The great, the paramount cause, why our common 
pchools do not, in many instances, accomplish more, is 
to be found in the want of interest in them : the almost 
universal indifference, the deathlike lethargy, which has 
fallen upon the great mass of the community. Legisla- 
tors are too ardently engaged in the great work of de- 
veloping the natural resources of the state, to devote 
much thought to the consideration of ways and means 
for the development of its mental and moral resources. 
Capitalists, concentrating their energies upon the con- 
struction of railroads and manufactories, have turned 
aside from the humble, and, of old, well-trodden high- 
way of knowledge, and heed but little the moral and 
intellectual machinery which is in operation all around 
them. Philosophers, intent upon the discovery of new 
and more brilliant lights in the natural, intellectual, and 
moral systems, have no eye or thought for the lesser 
lights which glimmer in the district schoolhouse. The 
aged, whose children have passed beyond the period of 
childhood and youth, whose interest in the things of 
earth is becoming weaker and weaker day by day, — 
the young, buoyant with life and energy, to whom the 
future is a cloudless prospect, — see, in the education of 
the rising generation, or its neglect, little or nothing to 
excite their hopes or fears. The rich, compelled to seek 
for their children, in the private school or academy, that 
which they in vain sought for in the public school, feel 
but little sympathy for a system which they are com- 
pelled to support, but which has totally failed to meet 
their wants. The poor, even, strange as it may appear, 
8* 



90 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

fail to appreciate the privilege and opportunity afforded 
them, of bestowing upon their children a virtuous and 
manly education, and yield grudgingly even the time 
which is necessarily consumed in the effort to acquire it. 
Parents, who, at home, carefully watch, lest an impure 
word or act should defile the innocency of their children, 
— lest the breath of heaven should visit them too roughly, 
— seldom, if ever, visit the schoolroom, to learn how 
their morals and their health are cared for there ; — while 
children, wearied of the task, in which no one, save 
their teacher, manifests the slightest interest, look for- 
ward to the period of their liberation from the thraldom 
of school, as the brightest day in life's calendar. Justice 
to that portion of the community who regard the cause 
of popular education in its true light, as the cause of 
God and humanity, and who gladly avail themselves of 
every fitting opportunity to promote its interest, requires 
me to add, that this fatal indifference, wide-spread and 
pernicious in its influences as it is, is not universal : — but 
the labors of the few can avail but little, so long as the 
public mind lies torpid under the influence of this chil- 
ling apathy. 



EXERCISE LXI. 
THE MAY-FLOWER. 

Methtnks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous 
vessel, the May-flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with 
the prospects of a future state, and bound across the un- 
known sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand mis- 
givings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise 
and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter sur- 
prises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight 
of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily sup- 
plied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in 
their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a cir- 
cuitous route ; and now driven in fury before the raging 
tempest, on the high and giddy waves. 

The awful voice of the storm howls through the rig- 
ging ; the laboring masts seem straining from their base ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 91 

the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, 
as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean 
breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the float- 
ing deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, 
against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from 
these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, 
and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the 
ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the 
voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending 
on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer 
on board, drinking nothing but water on shore, without 
shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me. on any 
principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of 
this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military 
science, in how many months were they all swept off by 
the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early 
limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, how long 
did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions 
and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant 
coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled 
projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adven- 
tures, of other times, and find the parallel of this. 

Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless 
heads of women and children ? was it hard labor and 
spare meals ? was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? 
was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined en- 
terprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, 
at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea; — 
was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this for- 
saken company to their melancholy fate ? And is it 
possible that neither of these causes, that not all com- 
bined, were able to blast this bud of hope ! Is it possi- 
ble, that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, 
not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone 
forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an 
expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, 
yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ! 



92 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXII. 
MOTIVES TO MORAL ACTION. 

The motives to moral action press upon the American 
citizen with unusual force at the present time. Upon 
us the hopes of man are resting, in every part of the 
world. Wherever humanity toils for a scanty subsist- 
ence ; wherever the iron heel of oppression falls upon 
the people ; wherever the last hope of liberty is dead — 

From the burning plains 

Where Lybian monsters yell, 
From the most gloomy glens 
Of Greenland's sunless climes, 
To where the golden fields 
Of fertile England spread 
Their harvest to the sky — 

" the voices of the past and the future seem to blend in 
one sound of warning and entreaty, addressing itself not 
only to the general but to the individual ear. calling 
upon us, each and all, to be faithful to the trust which 
God has committed to our hands." 

Let the American citizen feel the responsibilities of 
his position, with a determination that the hopes of the 
world shall not be disappointed. Nor let him mistake 
the nature of his duties. Many men acknowledge our 
evils and our dangers, but seek in vain for the remedy. 
They are ready for any sacrifice, but earnestly inquire 
when and where it is to be made. We eagerly seize 
upon any excuse for the non-performance of duty. 
" Give me where to stand," cried the ancient philoso- 
pher, " and I will move the world." " Find where to 
stand," shouts the modern reformer. u Stand where 
you are," is the voice of reason and religion. It is not 
upon some great and distant enterprise that our duty 
will call us. It is not in the tented field that our services 
will be needed. The battle-ground is in our own hearts; 
the enemy, in our own bosoms. And when the passions 
of men are subdued, when selfishness is purged from 
humanity, when lust ceases to burn, when anger is en- 
tirely restrained, when jealousy, hatred and revenge are 
unknown, then, and then only, is the victory won. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 93 

EXERCISE LXIII. 
EDUCATIONAL INTERESTS OF NEW YORK. 

Vast as are the interests of the empire state, with a 
population approaching to that of the whole united colo- 
nies at the time they achieved their independence, and 
a valuation probably exceeding that of the whole coun- 
try during the revolutionary struggle ; with a soil fertile 
in vegetable, and stored with mineral productions ; with 
a splendid system of internal improvements, yielding its 
millions of direct revenue to the state, yet, indirectly, a 
hundred fold more valuable to the citizens, from the 
means which it furnishes for universal competence and 
comfort; with an extent of territory almost equal to 
that of England ; occupying a central and commanding 
position, by which it is open to the ocean on one side, 
and connected on all others with immense regions, filled 
with industrious and populous communities, so that a 
great part of the commerce of the western world passes 
through its gates, and pays its tribute ; yet in the midst 
of these vast and varied interests, its true interest, the 
education of the people, transcends them all. 

For, to what purpose is there a combination of all 
these constituents of greatness, which make it truly an 
empire state; of what avail is its territorial extent, 
measured, as it is, by degrees of latitude and longitude 
upon the earth's surface ; why are its great thoroughfares 
and cities piled and heaped high with accumulated 
riches; to what end does every inflowing tide pour 
wealth upon its shores : if, amid all these elements of 
worldly power, the mind of man have not an over- 
mastering power ; if the intellect and morals do not rise 
above them, and predominate, and establish a supremacy 
over them, and convert them from gratifications of appe- 
tite, passions, and pride, into instruments of mental and 
spiritual well-being? 

To devote worldly and material resources to intellec- 
tual and moral improvement, to change corporeal riches 
into mental treasures, is to transmute the dull, cold, 
perishable things of earth and time into celestial and 
immortal capacities ; as by the mysterious processes of 



94 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

nature the dark mould of the valley is turned into flow- 
ers and fruits. " Excelsior" is the motto which that 
great state has chosen. Let her wisely fulfil that noble 
idea, by striving, through the means of an enlarged and 
thorough education of her people, to rise higher and 
higher in the endless scale of good. 



EXERCISE LXIV. 
THE YEAR 1776. 

There is, perhaps, no period in the revolutionary 
struggle to which we can recur more profitably than 
to the anxious summer and the gloomy autumn of 1776. 
The courage which survived such disasters, the hope 
which lived on amid so many discouragements, the faith 
which no reverses nor difficulties could shake, and which 
finally rose triumphant over them all, have long com- 
manded, and must ever command, the wonder of the 
world. And shall they not awaken something more 
than admiration in us, to whose benefit they have inured 
so largely 1 

It was while chilled by these blasts of adversity, while 
watered, as it were, by the tears of those great spirits, 
who for a long time could bring to the suffering cause 
little besides their own indomitable energies, that the 
tree of freedom was sending its roots outward and down- 
ward, and gathering strength for that rapidly expanding 
growth which marked the summer of its prosperity. It 
is not, be it ever remembered, the magnitude of armies, 
the masterly tactics by which mighty masses are made 
to march and countermarch, the brilliancy of the charge, 
the steady bravery of the repulse, or all the bloody sta- 
tistics of the most ensanguined conflict, which can 
attach to military operations a true and lasting interest. 
A hundred terrible battles gave to Napoleon a fame un- 
equalled in the annals of war, and that " name, at which 
the world grew pale." But they were unconnected with 
high principle, they were followed by no great, benig- 
nant results, and in the sober estimate of future times 
will rank, in importance, far below those Fabian cam- 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 95 

paigns, which laid the foundations of an empire, that 
already walks, with its rank unchallenged, among the 
foremost powers of earth. 

Not in vain, then, was even the defeat of Brooklyn ; 
not in vain the anguish with which the usually calm 
spirit of Washington was that day torn. Not in vain 
were those two anxious days and nights which he passed 
on horseback, and which saved from death or captivity 
nine thousand men. These, and more, — the reluctant 
abandonment of the city, the cowardice and desertion 
of the militia, the loss of the forts, and that sad retreat 
of the reduced, discouraged, barefooted, and half naked 
army through the Jerseys, — were all needed. In the im- 
mortal letters and despatches of the great commander, 
and in the painful annals of the time, we read the cost 
and the value of what we are now enjoying. Without 
these we had not fully known how inherent, how endur- 
ing and elastic, is the power of an earnest and virtuous 
patriotism. Without them, even the transcendent name 
of Washington could not have filled the mighty measure 
of its fame. 



EXERCISE LXV. 
THE STATES IN RELATION TO EDUCATION. 

In a government like ours, in which hereditary rights 
are unasserted, where title and ancestry give place to 
the superior claims of personal merit, where it may be 
said, with emphasis, men are made, not born, the edu- 
cation of our country's youth becomes an object of para- 
mount importance. Upon it rests the security of our 
individual and social enjoyments, the permanency of 
our civil and religious institutions, and the perpetuity 
of our national government. And in what, let me ask, 
does the perfection of civil liberty consist? Not in allow- 
ing every man to do as he pleases, without regard to 
consequences, certainly. But rather in abridging the 
privileges of individuals, whenever it becomes necessary 
to do so, in order to promote the general prosperity of 
the whole. 



96 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

To enjoy civil and religious liberty, a people must be 
educated; not a few of them merely, but the whole 
people. This truth might be illustrated by reference to 
the history of nations, and the prosperity of different 
states, and of the same state at different periods in her 
history. If we would know and enjoy our privileges as 
citizens of an independent and confederate state, we 
must develop our own moral and intellectual resources. 
If we would perpetuate the blessings of a free govern- 
ment, we must educate our country's youth. Every 
child in our land, on arriving at the period of his major- 
ity, should be able to read our common language under- 
standingly, write legibly, and compute accounts. Nay, 
more, he should understand the genius of our govern- 
ment, be an independent thinker, and be thoroughly 
established in virtue. 

The spirit of a republican government cannot exist, 
where the means of knowledge are not universally dis- 
seminated among the body politic. Demagogues may 
harangue an ignorant populace and basely eulogize them 
as the enlightened democracy, to obtain their votes, and 
secure their own promotion for sinister purposes, while 
the form of government remains unchanged. But the 
glory has departed. The people, in such cases, are led 
by traitors in a way they know not. They are no longer 
free. They are, to all intents and purposes, in slavery. 



EXERCISE LXVI. 
POPULAR EDUCATION. 

The work in which the friends of popular education 
throughout Christendom are engaged, infinitely tran- 
scends, in importance, all other temporal interests. It 
involves not only the welfare and happiness of the pres- 
ent and succeeding generations, but the welfare and the 
very existence of the republic. Degrade free schools, 
and you degrade the people ; and in the footsteps of that 
degradation will follow poverty, oppression, crime, and 
anarchy. Elevate the free schools, and you elevate the 
character of the people : you lift up the down-trodden, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 97 

and give new courage to the faint-hearted ; you break 
the sword and spear of the strong, and gird the weak 
with triple armor ; you strengthen the links of the golden 
chain which binds man to man, and earth to heaven ; 
you take the first great step towards abolishing the 
factitious distinctions which are permitted to exist in 
society, and make the equality of man a living reality ; 
and you hasten the coming of those predicted ages when 
man shall be re-created in the moral image of his Maker, 
and earth become again an Eden. 

In this great and glorious work there should be no 
sluggards. Let no man do himself the gross injustice to 
believe, and act upon the belief, that he can exert no 
influence. Every member of the community can do 
something, and that something he is bound, by the most 
solemn obligations, to do. It matters not what may be 
his condition or calling, whether the station he occupies 
be public or private, whether he be rich or poor, there is 
that in this cause which should excite his liveliest in- 
terest and call forth his noblest efforts. 

The preservation of our civil and religious rights, of 
reputation, of property, the present and future well-being 
of the state, of ourselves and our children, demand at our 
hands prompt, efficient, unwearied action. It appeals 
to us as Christians, philanthropists, patriots ! As we 
would diffuse far and wide the blessed influences of the 
religion of Jesus; as we would uphold the dignity of 
human nature ; as we would save the ballot-box, and 
the trial by jury, — the life-breath and the life-blood of 
the republic, — from becoming the senseless echo of the 
demagogue, the instrument of oppression and wrong ; be 
it ours to cherish, encourage, elevate the free school ! 
In the hands of the people is its destiny. We may 
make it what we will ; — our glory, or our shame ! 
The safe and sure foundation, or the sepulchre of our 
hopes ! To what worthier cause can our united influ- 
ence be lent! r ~ 
life be devoted ! 



98 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXVII. 
INDIAN CHARACTER. 

With a strength of character and a reach of intellect 
unknown in any other race of absolute savages, the In- 
dian united many traits, some of them honorable and 
some degrading to humanity, which made him formida- 
ble in his enmity, faithless in his friendship, and at all 
times a dangerous neighbor : cruel, implacable, treacher- 
ous, yet not without a few of the better qualities of the 
heart and the head ; a being of contrasts, violent in his 
passions, hasty in his anger, fixed in his revenge, yet 
cool in counsel, seldom betraying his plighted honor, 
hospitable, sometimes generous. A few names have 
stood out among them, which, with the culture of civil- 
ization, might have been shining stars on the lists of 
recorded fame. Philip, Pondiac, Sassacus, if the genius 
of another Homer were to embalm their memory, might 
rival the Hectors and Agamemnons of heroic renown ; 
scarcely less savage, not less sagacious or brave. 

Indian eloquence, if it did not flow with the richness 
of Nestor's wisdom, or burn with Achilles' fire, spoke in 
the deep, strong tones of nature, and resounded from the 
chords of truth. The answer of the Iroquois chief to 
the French, who wished to purchase his lands, and push 
him further into the wilderness, Voltaire has pronounced 
superior to any sayings of the great men commemorated 
by Plutarch. " We were born on this spot; our fathers 
are buried here. Shall we say to the bones of our fath- 
ers, Arise, and go with us into a strange land 1 " 

But more has been said of their figurative language 
than seems to be justified by modern experience. Wri- 
ters of fiction have distorted the Indian character, and 
given us anything but originals. Their fancy has pro- 
duced sentimental Indians, a kind of beings that never 
existed in reality ; and Indians clothing their ideas in 
the gorgeous imagery of external nature, which they 
had neither the refinement to conceive nor words to 
express. 

In truth, when we have lighted the pipe of concord, 
kindled or extinguished a council-fire, buried the bloody 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 99 

hatchet, sat down under the tree of peace with its spread- 
ing branches, and brightened the chain of friendship, we 
have nearly exhausted their flowers of rhetoric. But 
the imagery prompted by internal emotion, and not by 
the visible world, the eloquence of condensed thought 
and pointed expression, the eloquence of a diction ex- 
tremely limited in its forms, but nervous and direct, the 
eloquence of truth unadorned and of justice undisguised, 
these are often found in Indian speeches, and constitute 
their chief characteristic. 

It should, moreover, be said for the Indians, that, like 
the Carthaginians, their history has been written by their 
enemies. The tales of their wrongs and their achieve- 
ments may have been told by the warrior-chiefs to stim- 
ulate the courage and perpetuate the revenge of their 
children, but they were traces in the sand ; they perished 
in a day, and their memory is gone. 



EXERCISE LXYIII. 
THE SPIRIT OF NEW ENGLAND. 

It has been apprehended by some, that the fame of 
New England will fade before the increasing glories of 
the more powerful sister states. But the apprehension 
is unfounded. She must ever form an important mem- 
ber of the Union. She must ever sparkle a brilliant star 
in the constellation of the confederated states, as long as 
she preserves her religious, civil and literary character, 
her indefatigable industry, and her commercial enter- 
prise. For in what consist the greatness and respecta- 
bility of a nation ? Most assuredly, not in the numerical 
superiority of its inhabitants, or in the extent of its ter- 
ritory. If that were the case, China and India would be 
more powerful than Europe. 

But the greatness and respectability of a nation con- 
sist in the virtue, and vigor, and talents of its citizens. 
Rome, which sprang from the humblest origin, by her 
admirable institutions, and steady valor, and free spirit, 
subdued and overawed the world. Athens and Sparta, 
both small states, but glorying in freedom and indepen- 



100 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

denee, repulsed and defeated the numerous armies of the 
Great King ; and Alexander, with thirty thousand Gre- 
cians, subjugated the various and extensive provinces of 
Asia. 

What enabled the land of our fathers, in a late con- 
test, with very inferior numbers, successfully to resist 
almost all Europe combined against her, under the aus- 
pices of one of the ablest generals that any age has ever 
produced ? The freedom of her constitution, and that 
spirit which freedom never fails to inspire, aided by her 
commercial wealth, and the navy which protects it. 
And while these shall remain unimpaired, the conquest 
of Western Europe, by the arms of the northern powers, 
will prove an idle dream. It never can be realized, 
while superiority of civilization shall continue in favor 
of the opponent. 

What constitutes a state ? 
Not high-raised battlements, or labored mound, 

Thick wall, or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned, 

Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Nor starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No. Men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued, 

In forest, brake or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 

Men, who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain, 

Prevent the long-aimed blow, 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ; — 

These constitute a state. 



EXERCISE LXIX. 
INTEMPERANCE. 



The legitimate and inevitable consequence of intem- 
perance is to wither every plant of virtue, and dry up 
every stream of goodness in the human heart. Of ail 
vices, it is the most ruinous in its consequences. It is 






THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 101 

the prolific mother of crime ; the fertile source of disease, 
misery, and death. It completely effaces from the soul 
all sentiments of right and wrong; all parental, fraternal, 
and sisterly affection ; all sense of shame ; all regard for 
man ; all fear of God. It paralyzes the limbs, that they 
cannot move ; deadens the ear, that it cannot hear ; blinds 
the eye, that it cannot see : hardens the heart, that it can- 
not feel. It converts a man first into a brute, and next 
into a fiend. Like the fabled hydra, it is a monster of a 
hundred heads ; like Briareus, of a hundred hands. Its 
effects are like those of the fabled river of Andalusia, 
which withers up every plant it touches, and in whose 
stream no fish can live. Its victims are bound in the 
chains of a slavery perpetual and unremitted. Like 
Ixion, they are lashed to a wheel whose revolution is 
eternal. Like Sisyphus, they are laboring to roll to the 
top of a hill a rock that is perpetually recoiling upon 
them. Like Tantalus, they are forever surrounded by 
waters they cannot drink, and fruits they cannot taste. 
Like Prometheus, they are chained, not to a Caucasian 
rock, where the vulture will feed upon the liver for a 
brief period, but to the rock of death, where Conscience 
will ever feed upon the soul. 

And who is there that cannot point to some one, in 
the circle of his acquaintance, possessed of rare intellect- 
ual gifts, and who once gave fair promise of future emi- 
nence and renown, who has fallen a victim to this terri- 
ble vice I Unhappy man ! For him, the valley of 
Tempe, the garlands of Helicon, and the laurels that 
bloom on the brow of Parnassus, have now no charms. 
His fancy wanders no more to the banks of the Maean- 
der, or the cool Cephisus. He no longer delights to sit 
beneath the pines of Frascati, or meditate in the quiet 
groves of Pythagoras. The glorious communions he 
once held with the departed spirits of other times have 
gone — forever gone! The blind old bard of Greece, 
and he of Mantua, whose silver verse so oft enraptured 
his youthful fancy, have ceased their angel visits ; and 
instead, have come the desolate bosom, the throes and 
tossings of horror and hopelessness, the undying worm 
and the unquenchable fire of drunkenness ! 
9# 



102 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXX. 
PROGRESS OF LIBERTY. 

It is as certain as the concurring testimony of nature 
and revelation can make it, that the Almighty Father 
designs to render this earth, at last, the happy abode of 
nations and of men dwelling together in peace and love. 
To doubt the progress of humanity is, to me, the same 
as to doubt the Divine power, and wisdom, and goodness. 
To say that liberty can be utterly overthrown, and the 
just rights of man forever trampled in the dust, strikes 
upon my ears as nothing short of infidelity and impiety. 
But if we believe that the cause of humanity, as such, 
the world over, is to be promoted, why should we doubt 
that its progress here will be as rapid as elsewhere ? 

With all our faults, and all our misfortunes, it is still 
a truth which ought never to be overlooked, and which 
it would be as audacious to deny as it is ungrateful to 
forget, that no government ever invented has worked so 
well as that wonderful and beautiful system which the 
framers of the Constitution of the American Union con- 
trived, and successfully recommended to the states and 
people — preserving, as it does, the local sovereignty of 
the several members of the confederacy, while, for pur- 
poses common to them all, it consolidates them into one 
compact and vigorous empire. It has proved itself 
admirably adapted to collect and concentrate the moral 
and physical force of the nation against a foreign enemy; 
and recent events have most gloriously shown the self- 
sustaining energy which remains even in the smallest 
states of the confederacy. 

Occasional jars, and interferences, and perplexities, 
and threatening dangers, arise, but they belong to hu- 
man things, and nowhere, beneath the sun, can we 
rationally expect entirely to avoid them. Yes, my fel- 
low-countrymen, let Faith and Hope be the pillars of 
our patriotism, as of our piety. The blessings we enjoy, 
as citizens of this free land, will assuredly descend, with 
a tide of ever increasing depth and width, to our poster- 
ity. When we look into the past, we see the hand of 
God laying the foundations of the temple of our liberties, 






THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 103 

and when we look into the future, the depths of its 
boundless vistas are irradiated by the assurance that He 
will never permit the weakness or the wickedness of 
man to overthrow it. 



EXERCISE LXXI. 
EVENTS OF THE REVOLUTION. 

The military events of the Revolution, which neces- 
sarily occupy so much of its history, are not less honor- 
able to the actors, nor less fruitful in the evidences they 
afford of large design and ability of character. But 
these we need not recount. They live in the memory 
of all ; we have heard them from the lips of those who 
saw and suffered ; they are inscribed on imperishable 
monuments ; the very hills and plains around us tell of 
achievements which can never die ; and the day will 
come, when the traveller, who has gazed and pondered 
at Marathon and Waterloo, will linger on the mount 
where Prescott fought and Warren fell, and say — Here 
is the field where man has struggled in his most daring 
conflicts ; here is the field where liberty poured out her 
noblest blood, and won her brightest and most enduring 
laurels. 

Happy was it for America, happy for the world, that 
a great name, a guardian genius, presided over her des- 
tinies in war, combining more than the virtues of the 
Roman Fabius and the Theban Epaminondas, and com- 
pared with whom, the conquerors of the world, the Alex- 
anders and Caesars, are but pageants crimsoned with 
blood and decked with the trophies of slaughter, objects 
equally of the wonder and the execration of mankind. 
The hero of America was the conqueror only of his 
country's foes, and the hearts of his countrymen. To 
the one he was a terror, and in the other he gained an 
ascendency supreme, unrivalled, the tribute of admiring 
gratitude, the reward of a nation's love. 



104 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXXII. 
MORAL AND PHYSICAL FORCE. 

If my voice could but reach those of my fellow-coun- 
trymen who feel themselves deprived of their just natu- 
ral rights ; who, whether in the North or the South, are 
excluded from the privileges of freemen ; — and I claim 
a right to appeal to them, for no heart in the land beats 
with a livelier and deeper sympathy for them than mine; 
— I would beg and implore them never, voluntarily and 
of choice, — never, unless absolutely driven to it by their 
oppressors, — to resort to violence, however clearly the 
physical and numerical force may seem to be within 
their grasp. The awful and murderous operations of 
military power can only be justified when directed 
against a foreign invader, or domestic conspirators at- 
tempting to obtain possession of the government by force 
of arms; — even in such cases they must be allowed to 
be in themselves great evils, and are only tolerated be- 
cause necessary to put down still greater evils. They 
cannot be rightfully employed as the means of enlarging 
the liberties, or reforming the abuses, of any nation or 
community. 

The horrors and cruelties of civil and intestine war, 
the bloodshed and the barbarism of the battle-field, the 
furies and the crimes attendant upon massacre, confla- 
gration, and pillage, can never be made to prepare the 
way for the blessings of liberty, peace, and equal rights, 
to enter and take up their abode in any land. They 
serve only to bind upon it still more firmly the burden 
and the woes of slavery and sin. "AH they that take 
the sword," that is, select and adopt it as the means of 
improving their social or political condition, " shall per- 
ish with the sword." But truth is mighty, reason is 
mighty, conscience is mighty, the spirit of human and 
of Christian benevolence is mightier than them all, and 
the most despised minority, the most trampled victims 
of oppression and slavery, if they make these the weap- 
ons of their warfare, and wield them in faith, patience, 
and perseverance, will be sure to conquer, for God will 
be their ally. And the strongest and fiercest giant, who 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 105 

comes to the field with a spear, and with a sword, and 
with a shield, will be sure to fall before the merest strip- 
ling who meets him in the name of the Lord. 



EXERCISE LXXIH. 

SPEECH OF CORNPLANTER.^ 
[Addressed to Pres. Washington at Philadelphia, in 1790.] 

Father: — The voice of the Seneca nation speaks to 
you, — the great counsellor in whose hearts the wise 
men of all the thirteen fires f have placed their wisdom. 
It may be very small in your ears, and we, therefore, 
entreat you to hearken with attention, for we are able 
to speak of things which are to us very great. 

When your army entered the country of the Six 
Nations, we called you the town-destroyer ; and to this 
day, when this name is heard, our women look behind 
and turn pale, and our children cling close to the necks 
of their mothers. 

When our chiefs returned from Fort Starwix, and 
laid before our council what had been done there, our 
nation was surprised to hear how great a country you 
had compelled them to give up to you, without your 
paying to us anything for it* Every one said, that your 
hearts were yet swelled with resentment against us for 
what had happened during the war, but that one day 
you would consider it with more kindness; for, said we, 
what have we done to deserve such severe chastise- 
ment? 

Father; when you kindled your thirteen fires sepa- 
rately, the wise men assembled at them told us you 
were all brothers ; the children of one great father, who 
regarded the red people as his children. They called 
us brothers, and invited us to his protection. They told 
us that he resided beyond the great waters where the 
sun first rises ; and that he was a king whose power no 
people could resist, and that his goodness was as bright 

* We give this and the three following pieces as specimens of Indian elo- 
quence. 
t Thirteen States. 



106 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 



as the sun. What they said went to our hearts; we 
accepted the invitation and promised to obey him. 
What the Seneca nation promise they faithfully per- 
form. When you refused obedience to that king, he 
commanded us to assist his beloved men in making you 
sober. In obeying him we did no more than yourselves 
had led us to promise. We were deceived; but your 
people, teaching us to confide in that king, had helped to 
deceive us ; and we now appeal to your heart. Is all 
the blame ours ? 

Father; when we saw that we had been deceived, 
and heard the invitation which you gave us to draw 
near to the fire you had kindled, and talk with you con- 
cerning peace, we made haste towards it. You told us 
you could crush us to nothing ; and you demanded from 
us a great country as the price of that peace which you 
had offered to us, as if our Avant of strength had de- 
stroyed our rights. Our chiefs had felt your power, and 
were unable to contend against you, and they therefore 
gave up that country. What they agreed to has bound 
our nation; but your anger against us must by this 
be cooled, and although our strength is not increased, 
nor your power become less, we ask you to consider 
calmly, — Were the terms dictated to us by your com- 
missioners reasonable and just 7 






EXERCISE LXXIV. 

SPEECH OF BLACK HAWK. 

[Addressed to Gen. Street, before whom Black Hawk was brought as a prisoner, at 
Prairie du Chien, in 1832.] 

You have taken me prisoner, with all my warriors. 
I am much grieved, for I expected, if I did not defeat 
you, to hold out much longer, and give you more trouble 
before I surrendered. I tried hard to bring you into 
ambush, but your last general understands Indian fight- 
ing. I determined to rush on you, and fight you face 
to face. I fought hard. But your guns were well aimed. 
The bullets flew like birds in the air, and whizzed by 
our ears like the wind through the trees in w r inter. 
My warriors fell around me ; it began to look dismal 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 107 

I saw my evil day at hand. The sun rose dim on us in 
the morning, and at night it sank in a dark cloud, and 
looked like a ball of fire. That was the last sun that 
shone on Black Hawk. His heart is dead, and no 
longer beats quick in his bosom. He is now a prisoner 
to the white men. They will do with him as they wish. 
But he can stand torture, and is not afraid of death. 
He is no coward. Black Hawk is an Indian. 

He has done nothing for which an Indian ought to 
be ashamed. He has fought for his countrymen, the 
squaws and pappooses, against white men, who came, 
year after year, to cheat them and take away their 
lands. You know the cause of our making war. It is 
known to all white men. They ought to be ashamed 
of it. The white men despise the Indians, and drive 
them from their homes. But the Indians are not deceit- 
ful. The white men speak bad of the Indian, and look 
at him spitefully. But the Indian does not tell lies; 
Indians do not steal. 

An Indian who is as bad as the white men could 
not live in our nation ; he would be put to death, and 
eat up by the wolves. The Avhite men are bad school- 
masters. They carry false looks, and deal in false ac- 
tions. They smile in the face of the poor Indians to cheat 
them. They shake them by the hand to gain their con- 
fidence, to make them drunk, and to deceive them. We 
told them to let us alone, and keep away from us ; but 
they followed on, and beset our paths, and they coiled 
themselves among us, like the snake. They poisoned 
us by their touch. We were not safe. We lived in 
danger. We were becoming like them, — hypocrites and 
liars, adulterers, and lazy drones, all talkers and no 
workers. We looked up to the Great Spirit. We went 
to our father. We were encouraged. His great council 
gave us fair words and big promises; but we got no 
satisfaction, things were growing worse. There were 
no deer in the forest. The opossum and beaver were 
fled. The springs were drying up, and our squaws and 
pappooses without victuals to keep them from starving. 
We called a great council, and built a large fire. The 
spirit of our fathers arose and spoke to us to avenge our 



108 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

wrongs or die. We all spoke before the council fire. 
It was warm and pleasant. We set up the war whoop, 
and dug up the tomahawk. Our knives were ready, 
and the heart of Black Hawk swelled high in his bo- 
som, Avhen he led his warriors to battle. He is satisfied. 
He will go to the world of spirits contented. He has 
done his duty. His father will meet him there and 
commend him. 



EXERCISE LXXV. 
SPEECH OF RED JACKET. 

[A reply to the address of a missionary at a council of the chiefs of the Six Nations, in 

1805.] 

Friend and Brother ! It was the will of the Great 
Spirit that we should meet together this day. He or- 
ders all things, and has given us a fine day for our 
council. He has taken his garment from before the 
sun, and caused it to shine with brightness upon us. 
Our eyes are opened that we see clearly ; our ears are 
unstopped that we have been able to hear distinctly the 
words you have spoken. For all these favors we thank 
the Great Spirit, and Him only. 

Brother ! listen to what we say. There was a time 
when our forefathers owned this great island. Their 
seats extended from the rising to the setting sun ; the 
Great Spirit had made it for the use of the Indians. He 
had created the buffalo, the deer, and other animals for 
food. He had made the bear and the beaver ; their 
skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them 
over the country, and taught us how to take them. He 
had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All 
this he had done for his red children, because he loved 
them. If we had disputes about our hunting-ground, 
they were generally settled without the shedding of much 
blood. But an evil day came upon us; your forefa- 
thers crossed the great waters and landed on this island. 
Their numbers were small ; they found us friends, and 
not enemies. They told us they had fled from their 
own country through fear of wicked men, and had 
come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 109 

small seat; we took pity on them, and granted their 
request ; and they sat down among us. We gave them 
corn and meat; and, in return, they gave us poison. 
The white people now having found our country, tidings 
were sent back, and more came amongst us ; yet we did 
not fear them. We took them to be friends : they called 
us brothers; we believed them, and gave them a 
larger seat. At length their number so increased, that 
they wanted more land: they wanted our country. 
Our eyes were opened, and we became uneasy. Wars 
took place ; Indians were hired to fight against Indians ; 
and many of our people were destroyed. They also 
distributed liquor amongst us, which has slain thou- 
sands. 

Brother ! Once our seats were large, and yours were 
small. You have now become a great people, and we 
have scarcely a place left to spread our blankets. You 
have got our country, but, not satisfied, you want to 
force your religion upon us. 

Brother ! Continue to listen. You say you are sent 
to instruct us how to worship the Great Spirit agreeably 
to his mind, and that if we do not take hold of the reli- 
gion which you teach, we shall be unhappy hereafter. 
How do we know this to be true ? We understand that 
your religion is written in a book. If it was intended 
for us as well as you, why has not the Great Spirit 
given it to us ; and not only to us, but why did he not 
give to our forefathers the knowledge of that book, with 
the means of rightly understanding it? We only know 
what you tell us about it, and having been so often 
deceived by the white people, how shall we believe 
what they say? *'***.* 



EXERCISE LXXVL 
STORY AND SPEECH OF LOGAN. 



In the spring of the year 1774, a robbery was com- 
mitted by some Indians on certain land adventurers on 
the river Ohio. The whites in that quarter, according 
to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a 
10 



110 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

summary way. Captain Michael Cresap, and a certain 
Daniel Greathouse, leading on these parties, surprised, 
at different times, travelling and hunting parties of the 
Indians, having their women and children with them, 
and murdered many. Among these were, unfortu- 
nately, the family of Logan, a chief, celebrated in peace 
and war, and long distinguished as the friend of the 
whites. 

This unworthy return provoked his vengeance. He 
accordingly signalized himself in the war which en- 
sued. In the autumn of the same year, a decisive bat- 
tle was fought at the mouth of the Great Kenawha, 
between the collected forces of the Shawanese, Mingoes, 
and Delawares, and a detachment of the Virginia mili- 
tia. The Indians were defeated, and sued for peace. 
Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the sup- 
pliants. But lest the sincerity of a treaty should be dis- 
trusted, from which so distinguished a chief absented 
himself, he sent by a messenger the following speech, to 
be delivered to Lord Dunmore. 

" I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered 
Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ; if 
ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. 
During the course of the last long and bloody war, Lo- 
gan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. 
Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen 
pointed as they passed, and said, ' Logan is the friend 
of white men.' I had even thought to have lived with 
you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, 
the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered 
all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women 
and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in 
the veins of any living creature. This called on me for 
revenge. I have sought it ; I have killed many ; I have 
fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice 
at the beams of peace; but do not harbor a thought 
that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. 
He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is 
there to mourn for Logan? Not one." 



PART II. -PIECES OF POETRY. 



EXERCISE I. 
A PSALM OF LIFE. 



Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us further than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still like muffled drums are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle, — 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act — act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead. 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; — 



112 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait ! 



EXERCISE II. 



I would not wear the warrior's wreath, 

I would not court his crown ; 
For love and virtue sink beneath 

His dark and vengeful frown. 

I would not seek my fame to build 

On glory's dizzy height ; — 
Her temple is with orphans filled ; 

Blood soils her sceptre bright. 

I would not wear the diadem, 

By folly prized so dear ; 
For want and woe have bought each gem, 

And every pearl 's a tear. 

I would not heap the golden chest 

That sordid spirits crave ; 
For every grain, by penury cursed, 

Is gathered from the grave. 

No ; let my wreath unsullied be, 

My fame be virtuous youth ; 
My wealth be kindness, charity, — > 

My diadem be truth ! 

» 

EXERCISE III. 
ON VISITING A SCENE OF CHILDHOOD. 

Long years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene, 
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green, — 
The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed, 
By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 113 

I thought of the friends who had roamed with me there, 
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair,- — 
All scattered ! — all sundered by mountain and wave, 
And some in the silent embrace of the grave ! 

I thought of the green banks that circled around, 

With wild flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine crowned ; 

I thought of the river, all quiet and bright 

As the face of the sky on a blue summer night : 

And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed; 
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade ; 
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find 
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind. 

All eager, I hastened the scene to behold, 
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old ; 
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore 
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore. 

'T was a dream ! — not a token or trace could I view 
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew : 
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, — 
" Like a tale that is told," — they had vanished away. 

And methought the lone river, that murmured along, 
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, 
Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above, 
Had all fled from its banks at the fall of the grove. 

I paused : — and the moral came home to my heart : — 
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart ! 
Our visions are baseless, — our hopes but a gleam, — 
Our staffbut a reed, — and our life but a dream. 

Then, oh ! let us look — let our prospects allure — 
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure ; 
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime 
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time. 



EXERCISE IV. 
A HINT ON STREET MANNERS. 

Though books on Manners are not out of print, 
An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint. 
Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet, 
To spin your wordy fabric in the street ; 
10* 



114 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

While you are emptying your colloquial pack, 
The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back. 

Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale 
Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale : 
Health is a subject for his child, his wife, 
And the rude office that insures his life, 

Look in his face to meet thy neighbor's soul, 
Not on his garments to detect a hole : 
" How to observe'' is what thy pages show, 
Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau ! 
O, what a precious book the one would be, 
That taught observers what they 're not to see ! 

I tell in verse — 't were better done in prose — 
One curious trick that everybody knows ; 
Once form this habit, and it 's very strange 
How long it sticks, how hard it is to change. 
Two friendly people, both disposed to smile, 
Who meet, like others, every little while, 
Instead of passing with a pleasant bow, 
And "How d'ye do?" or " How's your uncle now ?" 
Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, 
But slightly weak, and somewhat undefined, 
Rush at each other, make a sudden stand, 
Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand ; 
Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck, 
Their meeting so was such a piece of luck ; 
Each thinks the other thinks he 's greatly pleased 
To screw the vice in w T hich they both are squeezed ; 
So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow, 
Both bored to death, and both afraid to go ! 



EXERCISE V. 
THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

There 's a bold, bald bird, with a bending beak, 
With an angry eye, aiad a startling shriek, 
That inhabits the crag, where the cliff-flowers blow, 
On the precipice top, in perpetual snow. 

He sits where the air is shrill and bleak, 
On the splintered point of a shivered peak, 
Bold, bald, and stripped, like a vulture torn, 
In wind and strife, his feathers worn. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 115 

All ruffled and stained, yet gleaming bright, 
Bound his serpent neck, that 's wrinkled and white, 
"Winds a red tuft of hair, which glitters afar, 
Like the crest of a chieftain thinned in war. 

This bird of the cliff, where the barren yew springs, 
Where the sun-beams play, and the wind-harp sings 
Sits erect, unapproachable, fearless, and proud, 
And screams, flies aloft, and lights in the cloud. 

He 's the bird of our banner :— the eagle that braves, 
When the battle is there, the wrath of the waves ; — 
He rides on the storm, in its hurricane march, 
'Mid lightning's broad blaze, across the blue arch. 

He dips his bold wing in the blushes of day ; 
Drinks noon's fervid light, and eve's parting ray; 
He visits the stars at their home in the sky, 
And meets the sun's beam with an unquailing eye. 



EXERCISE VI. 

SPEED THE PROW. 

Not the ship that swiftest saileth, 
But which longest holds her way 

Onward, onward, never faileth, 
Storm and calm, to win the day ; 

Earliest she the haven gains, 

Which the hardest stress sustains. 

O'er life's ocean, wide and pathless, 
Thus would I with patience steer ; 

No vain hope of journeying scathless, 
No proud boast to face down fear ; 

Dark or bright his Providence, 

Trust in God be my defence. 

Time there was, — 'tis so no longer,— 
When I crowded every sail, 

Battled with the waves, and stronger 
Grew, as stronger grew the gale ; 

But my strength sunk with the wind, 

And the sea lay dead behind. 



116 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

There my bark had foundered surely, 

But a power invisible 
Breathed upon me; — then securely 

Borne along the gradual swell, 
Helm and shrouds, and heart renewed, 
I my humbler course pursued. 

Now, though evening shadows blacken, 
And no star comes through the gloom, 

On I move, nor will I slacken 

Sail, though verging towards the tomb : 

Bright beyond, — on heaven's high strand, 

Lo, the lighthouse ! — land, land, land! 

Cloud and sunshine, wind and weather, 
Sense and sight, are fleeting fast; 

Time and tide must fail together, 
Life and death will soon be past ; 

But where day's last spark declines 

Glory everlasting shines. 



EXERCISE VII. 

PROLOGUE. 

Dear friends, we thank you for your condescension, 

In deigning thus to lend us your attention ; 

And hope the various pieces we recite 

(Youth though we are) will yield you some delight. 

From wisdom and from knowledge pleasure springs 
Surpassing far the glaring pomp of kings ; 
All outward splendor quickly dies away, 
But wisdom's honors never can decay. 

Blest is the man who treads her paths in youth, — 

They lead to virtue, happiness, and truth ; 

Sages and patriots in these ways have trod, 

Saints have walked in them till they reached their God. 

The powers of eloquence can charm the soul, 
Inspire the virtuous, and the bad control ; 
Can rouse the passions, or their rage can still, 
And mould a stubborn mob to one man's will. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 117 

Such powers the great Demosthenes attained, 
Who haughty Philip's conquering course restrained ; 
Indignant thundering at his country's shame, 
Till every breast in Athens caught the flame. 

Such powers were Cicero's : — with patriot might, 
He dragged the lurking treason forth to light, 
Which long had festered in the heart of Rome, 
And saved his country from her threatened doom. 

Nor to the senate or the bar confined; — 
The pulpit shows its influence o'er the mind ; 
Such glorious deeds can eloquence achieve ; 
Such fame, such deathless laurels, it can give. 

Then say not this, our weak attempt, is vain, 
For frequent practice will perfection gain ; 
The fear to speak in public it destroys, 
And drives away the bashfulness of boys. 



EXERCISE VIII. 
CLEON AND I. 

Cleon hath a million acres — 

Ne'er a one have I ; 
Cleon dwelleth in a palace — 

In a cottage, I ; 
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes — 

Not a penny, I ; 
But the poorer of the twain is 

Cleon, and not I. 

Cleon, true, possesseth acres, 

But the landscape, I ; 
Half the charms to me it yieldeth 

Money cannot buy ; 
Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, 

Freshening vigor, I ; 
He in velvet, I in fustian, — 

Richer man am I. 

Cleon is a slave to grandeur- 
Free as thought am I ; 

Cleon fees a score of doctors — 
Need of none have I ; 



118 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Wealth surrounded, care-environed, 

Cleon fears to die ; 
Death may come, he '11 find me ready, - 

Happier man am I. 

Cleon sees no charms in Nature — 

In a daisy, I ; 
Cleon hears no anthem ringing 

In the sea and sky ; 
Nature sings to me forever- — 

Earnest listener, I ; 
State for state, with all attendants, 

Who would change? — Not I. 



EXEKCISE IX. 
THE FAMILY MEETING. 

We are all here ! 

Father, Mother, 

Sister, Brother, 
All who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is filled — we 're all at home ; 
To-night let no cold stranger come ; 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we 're found ; 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot*} 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle Peace assert her power, 
And kind Affection rule the hour ; 

We 're all — all here. 

We 're not all here ! 
Some are away — the dead ones dear, 
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth, 
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, 
Looked in and thinned our little band : 
Some like a night-flash passed away, 
And some sank, lingering, day by day ; 
The quiet graveyard — some lie there — 
And cruel Ocean has his share — 

We 're not all here. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 119 

We are all here ! 
Even they — the dead — though dead, so dear, 
Fond Memory, to her duty true, 
Brings back their faded forms to view. 
How life-like, through the mist of years, 
Each well-remembered face appears ! 
We see them, as in times long past, 
From each to each kind looks are cast ; 
We hear their words, their smiles behold, 
They're round us, as they were of old, — 

We are all here. 

We are all here ! 

Father, Mother, 

Sister, Brother, 
You that I love with love so dear, 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon must we join the gathered dead ; 
And by the hearth we now sit round 
Some other circle will be found. 
Oh ! then, that wisdom may we know, 
Which yields a life of peace below ; 
So, in the world to follow this, 
May each repeat, in words of bliss, 

We 're all — all here ! 



EXERCISE X. 

PASSING AWAY. 

I asked the stars, in the pomp of night, 
Gilding its blackness with crowns of light, 
Bright with beauty, and girt with power, 
Whether eternity were not their dower ; 
And dirge-like music stole from their spheres, 
Bearing this message to mortal ears : — 

" We have no light that hath not been given ; 
We have no strength but shall soon be riven ; 
We have no power wherein man may trust ; 
Like him, are we things of time and dust; 
And the legend we blazon with beam and ray, 
And the song of our silence is — 'Passing away.' 



120 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright, 
Like lamps that have served for a festal night ; 
We shall fall from our spheres, the old and strong, 
Like rose-leaves swept by the breeze along ; 
The worshipped as gods in the olden day, 
We shall be like a vain dream — Passing away." 

From the stars of heaven, and the flowers of earth, 
From the pageant of power, and the voice of mirth, 
From the mists of morn on the mountain's brow, 
From childhood's song, and affection's vow, — 
From all, save that o'er which soul bears sway, N 
Breathes but one record — "Passing away." 

" Passing away," sing the breeze and rill, 

As they sweep on their course by vale and hill; — 

Through the varying scenes of each earthly clime, 

'T is the lesson of nature, the voice of time ; 

And man, at last, like his fathers gray, 

Writes in his own dust — " Passing away." 



EXERCISE XI. 
NEW ENGLAND. 

Land of the forest and the rock, 

Of dark blue lake and mighty river, 
Of mountains reared aloft to mock 
The storm's career, the lightning's shock, 

My own green land forever ! 
Land of the beautiful and brave, 
The freeman's home, the martyr's grave, 
The nursery of giant men, 
Whose deeds have linked with every glen, 
And every hill, and every stream, 
The romance of some warrior dream ! 
Oh ! never may a son of thine, 
Where'er his wandering steps incline, 
Forget the sky which bent above 
His childhood like a dream of love, 
The stream beneath the green hill flowing, 
The broad-armed trees above it growing, 
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 121 

Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn 
Breathed o'er the brave New England born ! 
Or mark the stranger's jaguar hand 

Disturb the ashes of thy dead, — 
The buried glory of a land 

Whose soil with noble blood is red, 
And sanctified in every part, — 

Nor feel resentment, like a brand, 
Unsheathing from his fiery heart ! 
Oh ! greener hills may catch the sun 

Beneath the glorious heaven of France ; 
And streams, rejoicing as they run 

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance, 
May wander where the orange bough 
With golden fruit is bending low ; 
And there may bend a brighter sky 
O'er green and classic Italy, 
And pillared fane and ancient grave 

Bear record of another time, 
And over shaft and architrave 

The green luxuriant ivy climb ; 
And far towards the rising sun 

The palm may shake its leaves on high, 
Where flowers are opening, one by one, 

Like stars upon the twilight sky ; 
And breezes soft as sighs of love 

Above the broad banana stray, 
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove 

A thousand bright-hued pinions play ! 
Yet unto thee, New England, still 

Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms, 
And thy rude chart of rock and hill 

Seem dearer than the land of palms ; 
Thy massy oak and mountain pine 

More welcome than the banyan's shade ; 
And every free, blue stream of thine 

Seem richer than the golden bed 
Of oriental waves, which glow 
And sparkle with the wealth below ! 
11 



122 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XII. 
TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

[The writer of the following lines left the endearments of home, and lost his 
health, in the pursuit of wealth.] 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear, 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark wandering streams, 

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams, 

Of Teviot loved while still a child ; 

Of castled rocks, stupendous piled, 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave ; 

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, 
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, 
That once so bright on fancy played, 

Revives no more in after time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts, that soared sublime, 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear ; — 
A gentle vision comes by night, 

My lonely widowed heart to cheer ; 

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 
That once were guiding-stars to mine ; 

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear; — 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

I left a heart that loved me true ; 
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 123 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my withered heart : the grave, 

Dark and untimely, met my view ; 
And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha ! comest thou now so late to mock 

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn ; 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? 

From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memory's fond regrets the prey, 

Vile slave ! thy yellow dross I scorn ; 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 



EXERCISE Xm. 
INDIAN NAMES. 

" How can the Red Men be forgotten, when so many of our states, territo- 
ries, bays, lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving ?" 

Ye say they all have passed away, 

That noble race and brave ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That, 'mid the forests where they roamed, 

There rings no hunter's shout; — 
But their name is on your waters, — 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'Tis where Ontario's billow 

Like ocean's surge is curled; 
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tributes from the west, 
And Eappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their cone-like cabins, 

That clustered o'er the vale, 
Have disappeared, as withered leaves 

Before the autumn gale ; — 



124 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But their memory liveth on your hills, 
Their baptism on your shore, 

Your everlasting rivers speak 
Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Within her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid her young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves, 
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachusett hides its lingering voice 

Within his rocky heart, 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart. 
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, 

Doth seal the sacred trust ; — 
Your mountains build their monument, 

Though ye destroy the dust. 



EXERCISE XIV. 
THE IMMORTAL MIND. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace, 

By steps, each planet's heavenly way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth or skies displayed, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall ; 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all that was at once appears. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 125 

Before creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quenched, or system breaks; 

Fixed in its own eternity. 

Above all love, hope, hate, or fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure ; 
An age shall fleet, like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



EXERCISE XV. 
THE POOR ANI> THE RICH. 

The rich man's son inherits lands, 
And piles of brick and stone and gold, 
And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
One would not care to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares. 

The bank may break, the factory burn, 

Some breath may burst his bubble shares, 

And soft white hands would scarcely earn 

A living that would suit his turn ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One would not care to hold in fee. 

What does the poor man's son inherit ? 
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 
King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
A king might wish to hold in fee. 
11* 



126 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

What does the poor man's son inherit ? 

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, 

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, 

Content that from enjoyment springs, 

A heart that in his labor sings ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What does the poor man's son inherit ? 

A patience learned by being poor, 

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it ; 

A fellow feeling that is sure 

To make the outcast bless his door; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

Oh, rich man's son, there is a toil 
That with all others level stands ; 
Large charity doth never soil, 
But only whitens, soft white hands ; 
This is the best crop from thy lands ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

Oh, poor man's son, scorn not thy state ! 
There is worse weariness than thine, — 
In being merely rich and great ; 
Work only makes the soul to shine, 
And makes rest fragrant and benign , 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both heirs to some six feet of sod, 
Are equal in the earth at last — 
Both, children of the same dear God. 
Prove title to your heirship vast, 
By record of a well-filled past ! 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Well worth a life to hold in fee. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 127 

EXERCISE XVI. 
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast; 
And the woods, against a stormy sky, 

Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conquerors come, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drum, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear : 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amid the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest, by the white waves' foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared : 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amid that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? — 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine. 



128 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ay, call it holy ground, — 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstained what there they found - 

Freedom to worship God ! 



EXERCISE XVII. 

LIGHT FOR ALL. 

You cannot pay with money 

The million sons of toil — 
The sailor on the ocean, 

The peasant on the soil, 
The laborer in the quarry, 

The heaver of the coal ; 
Your money pays the hand, 

But it cannot pay the soul. 

You gaze on the cathedral, 

Whose turrets meet the sky ; 
Remember the foundations 

That in earth and darkness lie ; 
For, were not these foundations 

So darkly resting here, 
Yon towers could never soar up 

So proudly in the air. 

The work-shop must be crowded, 

That the palace may be bright; 
If the ploughman did not plough, 

Then the poet could not write. 
Then let every toil be hallowed 

That man performs for man, 
And have its share of honor, 

As a part of one great plan. 

See, light darts down from heaven, 

And enters where it may ; 
The eyes of all earth's people 

Are cheered with one bright day. 
And let the mind's true sunshine 

Be spread o'er earth so free, 
And fill the souls of men, 

As the waters fill the sea. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 129 

The man who turns the soil 

Need not have an earthly mind ; 
The digger 'mid the coal 

Need not be in spirit blind ; 
The mind can shed a light 

On each worthy labor done, 
As lowest things are bright 

In the radiance of the sun. 

What cheers the musing student, 

The poet, the divine ? 
The thought that for his followers 

A brighter day will shine. 
Let every human laborer 

Enjoy the vision bright — 
Let the thought that comes from heaven 

Be spread like heaven's own light ! 

Ye men who hold the pen, 

Rise like a band inspired ! 
And poets, let your lyres 

With hope for man be fired ! 
Till the earth becomes a temple, 

And every human heart 
Shall join in one great service, 

Each happy in his part. 



EXERCISE XVHI. 
TO THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there ! 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings from the morning light ! 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle-bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 



130 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumping loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven, 
When strides the warrior of the storm, 

And rolls the thunder drum of heaven ! 
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free-— 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
And ward away the battle stroke, 
And bid its Mendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbinger of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal trumpet's tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on ; 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy meteor glories burn ; 
And as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance J 
And when the cannon's mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall, 
Like shoots of flame on midnight pall ! — 
There shall thy victor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall fall beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death ! 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean's wave, 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave. 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the swelling sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 131 

Flag of the free heart's only home, 

By angel hands to valor given ! 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome 

And all thy hues were born in heaven ; 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us 
With freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And freedom's banner streaming" o'er us. 



EXERCISE XIX. 
NAPOLEON AT REST. 

His falchion flashed along the Nile ; 

His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; 
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, 

His eagle flag unrolled, — and froze. 

Here sleeps he now, alone ! Not one, 
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 

Bends o'er his dust; — nor wife nor son 
Has ever seen or sought his grave. 

Behind this sea-girt rock, the star, 

That led him on from crown to crown, 

Has sunk ; and nations from afar 
Gazed as it faded and went down. 

High is his couch ; — the ocean flood, 
Far, far below, by storms is curled ; 

As round him heaved, while high he stood, 
A stormy and unstable world. 

Alone he sleeps ! The mountain cloud, 

That night hangs round him, and the breath 

Of morning scatters, is the shroud 

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. 

Pause here ! The far-ofT world, at last, 

Breathes free ; the hand that shook its thrones 

And to the earth its mitres cast, 

Lies powerless now beneath these stones. 



132 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Hark ! comes there, from the pyramids, 
And from Siberian wastes of snow, 

And Europe's hills, a voice that bids 

The world he awed to mourn him ? -*— No ; - 

The only, the perpetual dirge, 

That 's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry, — 
The mournful murmur of the surge, — 

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 



EXERCISE XX. 
THE THREE BLACK CROWS. 

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, 
One took the other, briskly, by the hand ; 

' Hark ye," said he ; " 'tis an odd story this, 
About the crows ! " — "I don't know what it is," 
Replied his friend. — " No ! I 'm surprised at that ; 
Where I come from, it is the common chat : 
But you shall hear ; an odd affair indeed ! 
And that it happened, they are all agreed. 
Not to detain you from a thing so strange, 
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, 
This week, in short, as all the alley knows, 
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." 

" Impossible ! " — " Nay, but 't is really true ; 
I had it from good hands, and so may you." 

" From whose, I pray ?" So having named the man, 
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. 

" Sir, did you tell" — relating the affair — 

" Yes, sir, I did ; and, if it 's worth your care, 
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me ; 
But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three." 
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, 
Whip to the third the virtuoso went. 

" Sir," — and so forth — " Why, yes ; the thing is fact, 
Though in regard to number not exact ; 
It was not two black crows, 'twas only one ; 
The truth of that you may depend upon. 
The gentleman himself told me the case." 

" Where may I find him ?" — " Why, in such a place." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 133 

Away he goes, and having found him out, — 

" Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." 
Then to his last informant he referred, 
And begged to know if true what he had heard. 

11 Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?" — " Not I!" 

11 Bless me ! how people propagate a lie ! 
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, 
And here I find all comes at last to none ! 
Did you say nothing of a crow at all ? " 

" Crow — crow — perhaps I might, now I recall 
The matter over." — "And pray, sir, what was't?" 

" Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, 
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, 
Something that was as black, sir, as a crow ! " 



EXERCISE XXL 
CONTENTED JOHN. 

One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, 
Although he was poor, did not want to be richer ; 
For all such vain wishes to him were prevented, 
By a fortunate habit of being contented. 

Though cold was the weather, or dear was the food, 
John never was found in a murmuring mood ; 
For this he was constantly heard to declare — 
What he could not prevent, he would cheerfully bear. 

For why should I grumble and murmur ? he said ; 
If I cannot get meat, I can surely get bread ; 
And though fretting may make my calamities deeper, 
It never can cause bread and cheese to be cheaper. 

If John was afflicted with sickness and pain, 
He wished himself better, but did not complain ; 
Nor lie down to fret in despondence and sorrow, 
But said — that he hoped to be better to-morrow. 

If any one wronged him, or treated him ill, 
Why John was good-natured and sociable still ; 
For he said — that revenging the injury done 
Would be making two rogues, when there need be but one 
12 



134 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And thus, honest John, though his station was humble, 
Passed through this sad world without even a grumble ; 
And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, 
Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher. 



EXERCISE XXII. 
AN ACRE OF CORN. 

I am a poor ploughman, who never have wandered 

Away from the sight and the pleasures of home ; 
I have always been prudent, and never have squandered, 

And so I have never been driven to roam. 
For thirty long summers my shoulders have bended 

In tilling the farm where my father was born ; 
I live under his roof, and this season have tended, 

With the plough that he left me, an acre of corn. 

Though others may go to the southward and peddle, 

And bring home of guineas and dollars good store, 
I ne'er have desired with their crankums to meddle, 

But to hoe in my garden that lies by my door. 
When the sun is first rising, I always am hoeing 

The mould, when 'tis wet with the dews of the morn; 
And when he is higher, you. will find me a mowing, 

Or driving the plough in my acre of corn. 

There are some who are crossing by sea to the island 

They call Santa Cruz, with their horses and hay ; 
For my part, I 'd rather be safe here on dry land, 

And hoe in my garden, or work by the day. 
I am out to the field with the sun, and am mowing 

Till called up at noon by the sound of the horn ; 
Or else I am twirling my hoe, and am throwing 

The mould round the roots of my acre of corn. 

This corn is the sort that is tufted and bowing, 

And when we have threshed it, 't is made into brooms ; 
'T is the best of all besoms, so far as I 'm knowing, 

To sweep out the dirt and the dust from our rooms : 
They always have raised it, since I can remember, 

And, my father once told me, before I was born 
He made brooms for his trade, and I guess by December 

I shall make up a load from my acre of corn. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 135 

EXERCISE XXIII. 
THE OLD ARM CHAIR. 

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm chair ! 

I have treasured it long as a holy prize, 

I 've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs ; 

'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 

Would you learn the spell ? A mother sat there, 

And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat, with listening ear ; 

And gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day, 

When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray; 

And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, 

And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 

Years rolled on, but the last one sped — 

My idol was shattered, my earth star fled; 

I learnt how much the heart can bear, 

When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 

'T is past ! 't is past ! but I gaze on it now, 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow, — 
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died; 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
While the scalding tears start down my cheek ; 
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm chair. 



136 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XXIV. 
THE POOR MAN'S HYMN. 

Why for a hoard of gold should I, 
Like yonder squalid miser, care — 

Or for the purple vestments sigh, 

That sting the monarch's soul with care ? 

Can the mean pittance of their gems, 
Their stately ships that ride the sea, 

Their sceptres, or their diadems, 
Add, or take aught away from me ? 

These are my wants — a simple scroll, 
My food, my raiment, and a hearth ; 

Where, with the chosen of my soul, 
I proudly rise above the earth ! 

There are my riches — in the vales ; 

The hill-sides, too, are gemmed with gold — 
And whispering angels on the gales 

Bring all that 's needful to my fold. 

This is rny fold — the heart within, 

Where answering smiles, that meet my own, 

Are gifts I need not thirst to win, 

And, won, are worthier than a throne ! 

The miser is a drudge, a slave ! 

Who never can his task fulfil; 
He nobly free, who does not crave 

To weave a living web of ill ! 

Not while the azure sky is bright 
And sparkling whither way I turn, 

While all the earth is robed in light 
From rays that, heaven reflected, burn ; 

Not while these flowers perpetual spring 
Beneath the dew drop and the sun, 

Would I exchange with haughtiest king, 
Or ask the crown that crime has won ! 

No ! for enough is all I care 

To delve or sorrow as I go, 
And I would always hope to share 

That little with the loved below. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 137 

Kings to the dust their heads must bow, 
When life ebbs out mid grief and pain ; 

1 tear no jewels from my brow, 

Nor weep to meet mine own again ! 



EXERCISE XXV. 

LABOR. 

[The following lines were suggested by the simple incident of an industrious 
wood-sawyer's reply to a man who told him his was hard work: " Yes, it is 
hard, to be sure ; but it is harder to do nothing." was his answer.] 

Ho, ye who at the anvil toil, 

And strike the sounding blow, 
Where, from the burning iron's breast, 

The sparks fly to and fro, 
While answering to the hammer's ring, 

And fire's intenser glow ! — 
O, while ye feel 't is hard to toil 

And sweat the long day through, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho, ye who till the stubborn soil, 

Whose hard hands guide the plough, 
Who bend beneath the summer sun, 

With burning cheeks and brow ! — 
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth 

From olden time till now ; 
But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil 

And labor all day through, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho, ye who plough the sea's blue field, 

Who ride the restless wave, 
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel 

There lies a yawning grave, 
Around whose bark the wintry winds 

Like fiends of fury rave ! — 
O, while ye feel 't is hard to toil 

And labor long hours through, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 
12* 



138 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Ho, ye upon whose fevered cheeks 

The hectic glow is bright, 
Whose mental toil wears out the day, 

And half the weary night, 
Who labor for the souls of men, 

Champions of truth and right ! — 
Although ye feel your toil is hard, 

Even with this glorious view, 
Remember, it is harder still 

To have no work to do. 

Ho, all who labor — all who strive ! — 

Ye wield a lofty power ; 
Do with your might, do with your strength, 

Fill every golden hour ! 
The glorious privilege to do 

Is man's most noble power. 
Oh, to your birthright and yourselves, 

To your own souls, be true ! 
A weary, wretched life is theirs, 

Who have no work to do. 



EXERCISE XXVI. 
THE CROP OF ACORNS. 

There came a man, in days of old, 
To hire a piece of land for gold, 
And urged his suit in accents meek, 
" One crop alone is all I seek ; 
That harvest o'er, my claim I '11 yield, 
And to its lord resign the field." 

The owner some misgivings felt, 
And coldly with the stranger dealt, 
But found his last objection fail, 
And honeyed eloquence prevail ; 
So took the proffered price in hand, 
And for one crop leased out the land. 

The wily tenant sneered with pride, 
And sowed the spot with acorns wide ; 
At first, like tiny shoots they grew, 
Then broad and wide their branches threw ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 139 

But long before those oaks sublime, 
Aspiring, reached their forest prime, 
The cheated landlord mouldering lay, 
Forgotten with his kindred clay. 

Oh ye, whose years, unfolding fair, 

Are fresh with youth, and free from care, 

Should Vice or Indolence desire 

The garden of your soul to hire, 

No parley hold, reject their suit, 

Nor let one seed the soil pollute ! 

My child, their first approach beware ; 
With firmness break the insidious snare, 
Lest, as the acorns grew and throve 
Into a sun-excluding grove, 
Thy sins, a dark, o'ershadowing tree, 
Shut out the light of heaven from thee. 



EXERCISE XXVII. 
LINES FOR AN EXHIBITION. 

Kind friends and dear parents, we welcome you here, 
To our nice pleasant schoolroom, and teachers so dear; 
We wish but to show you how much we have learned, 
And how to our lessons our hearts have been turned. 

But we hope you '11 remember we all are quite young, 
And when we have spoken, recited, and sung, 
You will pardon our blunders, which, as all are aware, 
May even extend to the President's chair. 

We seek your approval with hearty good will, 
And hope the good lessons our teachers instil 
May make us submissive, and gentle and kind, 
As well as enlighten and strengthen the mind. 

For learning, we know, is more precious than gold, 
But the worth of the heart's jewels ne'er can be told ; 
We '11 strive, then, for virtue, truth, honor, and love, 
And thus lay up treasures in mansions above. 



140 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Our life is a school-time, and till that shall end, 
With our Father in heaven for teacher and friend, 
Oh let us perform well each task that is given, 
Till our time of probation is ended in heaven. 



EXERCISE XXVIH. 
OUR COUNTRY. 

Our country ! — 't is a glorious land, 

With broad arms stretched from shore to shore ; 
The proud Pacific chafes her strand, 

She hears the dark Atlantic roar ; 
And, nurtured on her ample breast, 

How many a goodly prospect lies, 
In Nature's wildest grandeur dressed, 

Enamelled with her loveliest dyes! 

Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold, 

Like sunlit oceans roll afar ; 
Broad lakes her azure heavens behold, 

Reflecting clear each trembling star ; 
And mighty rivers, mountain-born, 

Go sweeping onward, dark and deep, 
Through forests, where the bounding fawn 

Beneath their sheltering branches leap. 

And, cradled mid her clustering hills, 

Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide, 
Where love the air with music fills, 

And calm content and peace abide ; 
For plenty here her fulness pours, 

In rich profusion, o'er the land, 
And, sent to seize her generous store, 

There prowls no tyrant's hireling band. 

Great God ! we thank thee for this home — 

This bounteous birth-land of the free ; 
Where wanderers from afar may come, 

And breathe the air of liberty ! — 
Still may her flowers untrampled spring, 

Her harvests wave, her cities rise ; 
And yet, till time shall fold her wing, 

Remain earth's loveliest paradise ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 141 

EXERCISE XXIX. 
THE NEW ENGLANDER AMONG THE ALPS. 

Alps above Alps around me rise, 
Lost in the very depths of air, 
And stand between the earth and skies, 
In calm, majestic grandeur there. 
Stupendous heights, by man untrod ! 
Types of the mighty power of God ! 
Here stand ye, as ye stood, when first 
Your splendor out of chaos burst ; 
Here have you reared your giant forms, 
From age to age, 'mid desolating storms. 

Now glaciers stretch beneath my feet, 

Lost in the cloudy air below, 

By arrowy hail and tempests beat, 

And covered with eternal snow ; 

The chamois and the mountain deer 

Can hardly find a shelter here ; 

The eagle can scarce build her nest 

Upon thy cold and icy breast ; 

All, all is still. There breathes no sound : — 

Thy frozen cliffs are wrapt in solitude profound. 

Oh, solemn scene ! majestic ! vast ! 

Here w r ili you ever stand, as now, 

Omnipotence around you cast, 

And God's own seal upon your brow ! — 

Below a thousand torrents lie ; 

Above, thy summits pierce the sky, 

Sparkling before the astonished sight 

Like pyramids of frozen light, 

Here, e'en as now, in strength sublime, 

The ice-clad cliffs shall stand throughout all coming time. 

But while I on these mountains stand. 

And while my heart with wonder thrills, 

Shall I forget my native land — 

My own New England hills ? 

No, no ! there 's not a spot on earth 

Like that blest land that gave me birth ; 

And even now before my eyes 

Her rivers roll — her green hills rise, — 

Her wild flowers bloom ! Thus bright and free, 

My own New England home, my native land for me ! 



142 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XXX. 
THE DILATORY SCHOLAR. 

Oh ! where is my hat ? — it is taken away, 

And my shoestrings are all in a knot ! 
I can't find a thing where it should be to-day, 

Though I 've hunted in every spot. 

My slate and my pencil nowhere can be found, 
Though I placed them as safe as could be ; 

While my books and my maps are all scattered around, 
And hop about just like a flea. 

Do, Each el, just look for my Atlas, up stairs ; 

My Virgil is somewhere there, too ; 
And, sister, brush down these troublesome hairs,— 

And, brother, just fasten my shoe. 

And, mother, beg father to write an excuse ; 

But stop — he will only say " No," 
And go on with a smile, and keep reading the news, 

While everything bothers me so. 

My satchel is heavy and ready to fall ; 

This old pop-gun is breaking my map ; 
I '11 have nothing to do with the pop-gun or ball, — 

There 's no playing for such a poor chap ! 

The town clock will strike in a minute, I fear; 

Then away to the fort I must sink : — 
There, look at my History, tumbled down here ! 

And my Algebra covered with ink ! 

I wish I ? d not lingered at breakfast the last, 
Though the toast and the butter were fine ; 

I think that our Edward must eat very fast, 
To be off when I have n't done mine. 

Now, Edward and Henry protest they won't wait, 
And beat on the door with their sticks ; 

I suppose they will say I was dressing too late ; 
To-morrow I '11 be up at six. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 143 

EXERCISE XXXI. 
A NAME IN THE SAND. 

Alone I walked the ocean strand ; 
A pearly shell was in my hand : 
I stooped and wrote upon the sand 

My name — the year — the day. 
As onward from the spot I passed, 
One lingering look behind I cast : 
A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, methought, 't will shortly be 
With every mark on earth from me ; 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 

Will sweep across the place ; 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been, to be no more, 
Of me — my day — the name I bore — 

To leave nor track nor trace. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
And holds the waters in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands, 

Inscribed against my name, 
Of all this mortal part has wrought; 
Of all this thinking soul has thought ; 
And from these fleeting moments caught 

For glory or for shame. 



EXERCISE XXXII. 
REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, 

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. 

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, — 
The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; 

The point in dispute was, all the world knows, 
To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 

So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; 

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 



144 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, 

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, 

That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
Which amounts to possession, time out of mind. 

Then, holding the spectacles up to the court — 

Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, 

As wide as the ridge of the nose is ; in short, 
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 

('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) 

That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 

Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then? 

On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 

Then, shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 

But what were his arguments few people know, 
For the court did not think they were equally wise. 

So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone, 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but — 

That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 

By day-light or candle-light — Eyes should be shut. 



EXERCISE XXXIII. 
PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE. 

Away ! away ! I will not hear 

Of aught but death or vengeance now ! 
By the eternal skies, I ne'er 

The willing knee will cause to bow ! 
I will not hear a word of peace, 

Nor grasp, in friendly grasp, a hand 
Linked to the pale-browed stranger race, 

That work the ruin of our land ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 145 

Before their coming, we had ranged 

Our forests and our uplands free ; 
Still let us keep unsold, unchanged, 

The heritage of liberty ! 
As free as rolls the chainless stream, 

Still let us roam our ancient woods ! 
As free as break the morning beams, 

That light our mountain solitudes ! 



Touch not the hand they stretch to you ! 

The falsely proffered cup, put by! — 
Will you believe a coward true ? 

Or taste the poison-draught, to die ? 
Their friendship is a lurking snare ; 

Their honor, but an idle breath ; 
Their smile, the smile that traitors wear ; 

Their love is hate, their life is death ! 

Plains which your infant feet have roved, 

Broad streams you skimmed in light canoe, 
Green woods and glens your fathers loved — 

Whom smile they for, if not for you ? 
And could your fathers' spirits look, 

From lands where deathless verdure waves, 
Nor curse the craven hearts that brook 

To barter for a nation's graves ? 

Then raise, once more, the warrior song, 

That tells despair and death are nigh ! 
Let the loud summons peal along, 

Bending the arches of the sky ! 
And till your last white foe shall kneel, 

And in his coward pangs expire — 
Sleep — but to dream of band and steel ! 

Wake — but to deal in blood and fire ! 



EXERCISE XXXIV. 
THE FIELDS OF WAR. 



They rise, by stream and yellow shore, 
By mountain, moor, and fen ; 

By weedy rock and torrent hoar, 
And lonesome forest glen ! 
13 



146 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

From many a woody, moss-grown mound, 

Start forth a war-worn band, 
As when, of old, they caught the sound 
Of hostile arms, and closed around, 
To guard their native land. 

Hark ! to the clanging horn ; 

Hark ! to the rolling drum ! 
Arms glitter in the flash of morn, 

The hosts to battle come ! 
The serried files, the plumed troop, 

Are marshalled once again, 
Along the Hudson's mountain group, 

Along the Atlantic main ! 

On Bunker, at the dead of night, 

I seem to view the raging fight, 

The burning town, the smoky height, 

The onset, the retreat ! 
And down the banks of Brandywine, 
I see the levelled bayonets shine ; 
And lurid clouds of battle twine, 

Where struggling columns meet ! 

Yorktown and Trenton blaze once more ! 
And by the Delaware's frozen shore, 
The hostile guns at midnight roar, 

The hostile shouts arise ! 
The snows of Valley-Forge grow red, 
And Saratoga's field is spread 
With heaps of undistinguished dead, 

And filled with dying cries ! 

'Tis o'er; the battle-shout has died 
By ocean, stream, and mountain side; 
And the bright harvest, far and wide, 

Waves o'er the blood-drenched field; 
The rank grass o'er it greenly grows, 
And oft the upturning shares disclose 
The buried arms and bones of those 

Who fell, but would not yield ! 

Time's rolling chariot hath effaced 
The very hillocks where were placed 
The bodies of the dead, in haste, 
When closed the furious fight. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 147 

The ancient fort and rampart-mound 
Long since have settled to the ground, 

On Bunker's famous height, 
And the last relics of the brave 
Are sinking to oblivion's grave ! 



EXERCISE XXXV. 
THE PILGRIMS. 

Across the rolling ocean 

Our Pilgrim Fathers came, 
And here, in rapt devotion, 

Adored their Maker's name. 
Amid New England's mountains, 

Their temple sites they chose, 
And by its streams and fountains 

The choral song arose. 

Their hearts with freedom burning, 

They felled the forests wide, 
And reared the halls of learning — 

New England's joy and pride ; 
Through scenes of toil and sadness 

In faith they struggled on, 
That future days of gladness 

And glory might be won. 

The men of noble spirit, 

The Pilgrims, are at rest — 
The treasures we inherit 

Proclaim their memory blest ! 
From every valley lowly, 

From mountain tops above, 
Let grateful thoughts, and holy, 

Rise to the God of love. 



EXERCISE XXXVI. 
new England's dead. 

New England's dead ! New England's dead ! 

On every hill they lie ; 
On every field of strife made red 

By bloody victory. 



148 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Each valley, where the battle poured 

Its red and awful tide, 
Beheld the brave New England s^vord 

With slaughter deeply dyed. 
Their bones are on the northern hill, 

And on the southern plain, 
By brook and river, lake and rill, 

And by the roaring main. 

The land is holy where they fought, 

And holy where they fell ; 
For by their blood that land was bought, 

The land they loved so well. 
Then glory to that valiant band, 
The honored saviors of the land ! 
Oh ! few and weak their numbers were, — 

A handful of brave men ; 
But to their God they gave their prayer, 

And rushed to battle then. 
The God of battles heard their cry, 
And sent to them the victory. 

They left the ploughshare in the mould, 

Their flocks and herds without a fold, 

The sickle in the unshorn grain, 

The corn, half garnered, on the plain, 

And mustered, in their simple dress, 

For wrongs to seek a stern redress ; 

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, 

To perish, or o'ercome their foe. 

And where are ye, O fearless men ? 

And where are ye to-day ? 
I call : — the hills reply again 

That ye have passed away ; 
That on old Bunker's lonely height, 

In Trenton and in Monmouth ground, 
The grass grows green, the harvest bright, 

Above each soldier's mound ! 

The bugle's wild and warlike blast 

Shall muster them no more : 
An army now might thunder past, 

And they heed not its roar. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 149 

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, 

In many a bloody day, 
From their old graves shall rouse them not, 

For they have passed away. 



EXERCISE XXXVII. 
THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 

I saw him on the battle eve, 

When like a king he bore him ; 
Proud hosts, in glittering helm and greave, 

And prouder chiefs, before him ; 
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, — 
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, — 

No daunting thoughts came o'er him ; 
He looked around him, and his eye 
Defiance flashed to earth and sky. 

He looked on ocean ; its broad breast 

Was covered with his fleet ; — 
On earth ; and saw, from east to west, 

His bannered millions meet ; — 
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, 
Shook with the war-cry of that host, 

The thunder of their feet ! 
He heard the imperial echoes ring, — 
He heard, and felt himself a king. 

I saw him next, alone : — nor camp, 

Nor chief, his steps attended ; 
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp 

With war-cries proudly blended. 
He stood alone, whom Fortune high 
So lately seemed to deify ; 

He, who with Heaven contended, 
Fled like a fugitive and slave ! 
Behind, — the foe ; — before, — the wave. 

He stood, — fleet, army, treasure, — gone, — 

Alone and in despair ! 
But wave and wind swept ruthless on, 

For they were monarchs there ; 
13* 



150 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And Xerxes, in a single bark, 

Where late his thousand ships were dark, 

Must all their fury dare ; 
What a revenge — a trophy, this — 
For thee, immortal Salamis ! 



EXERCISE XXXVIII. 
A CENTENNIAL HYMN. 

Two hundred years ! — two hundred years ! — 
How much of human power and pride, 

What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears, 
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! — 

The red man, at his horrid rite, 

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, 

His bark canoe its track of light 

Left on the wave beneath the moon, — 

His dance, his yell, his council-fire, 

The altar where his victim lay, 
His death-song, and his funeral pyre, — 

That still, strong tide hath borne away. 

And that pale pilgrim band is gone, 

That on this shore, with trembling, trod, 

Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
The ark of freedom and of God. 

And war — that, since, o'er ocean came, 
And thundered loud from yonder hill, 

And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame, 
To blast that ark — its storm is still. 

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, 

That live in story and in song, 
Time, for the last two hundred years, 

Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 

'T is like a dream when one awakes — 
This vision of the scenes of old : 

'T is like the moon when morning breaks, 
'T is like a tale round watch-fires told. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 151 

Then what are we ? — then what are we ? 

Yes, when two hundred years have rolled 
O'er our green graves, our names shall be 

A morning dream, a tale that 's told. 

God of our fathers, — in whose sight 

The thousand years that sweep away 
Man, and the traces of his might, 

Are but the break and close of day, — 

Grant us that love of truth sublime, 

That love of goodness and of thee, 
Which makes thy children, in all time, 

To share thine own eternity ! 



EXERCISE XXXIX. 
YANKEE SHIPS. 

Our Yankee ships ! in fleet career, 

They linger not behind, 
Where gallant sails from other lands 

Court favoring tide and wind. 
With banners on the breeze, they leap 

As gayly o'er the foam 
As stately barks from prouder seas, 

That long have learned to roam. 

The Indian wave, with luring smiles, 

Swept round them bright to-day ; 
And havens of Atlantic isles 

Are opening on their way ; 
Ere yet these evening shadows close, 

Or this frail song is o'er, 
Full many a straining mast will rise 

To greet a foreign shore. 

High up the lashing northern deep, 

Where glimmering watch-lights beam, 
Away in beauty where the stars 

In tropic brightness gleam, 
Where'er the sea-bird wets her beak, 

Or blows the stormy gale ; 
On to the water's furthest verge 

Our ships majestic sail. 



152 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

They dip their keels in every stream 

That swells beneath the sky ; 
And where old ocean's billows roll 

Their lofty pennants fly : 
They furl their sheets in threatening clouds 

That float across the main, 
To link with love earth's distant bays, 

In many a golden chain. 



EXERCISE XL. 
PLEA FOR THE RED MAN. 

I venerate the Pilgrim's cause, 

Yet for the Red Man dare to plead : 
We bow to Heaven's written laws, 

He turned to Nature for a creed ; 

Beneath the pillared dome 
We seek our God in prayer ; 

Through boundless woods he loved to roam, 
And the Great Spirit worshipped there. 
But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt ; 
To one divinity with us he knelt ; 
Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore, 
Bade him defend his violated shore. 

He saw the cloud ordained to grow, 

And burst upon his hills in woe ; 

He saw his people withering by, 

Beneath the invader's evil eye ; 
Strange feet were trampling on his father's bones ; 

At midnight hour he woke to gaze 

Upon his happy cabin's blaze, 
And listen to his children's dying groans. 

He saw, and, maddening at the sight, 

Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; 

To tiger rage his soul was driven ; 

Mercy was not, — nor sought nor given ; 

The pale man from his lands must fly ; 

He would be free, or he would die. 

And was this savage ? Say, 

Ye ancient few, 

Who struggled through 
Young Freedom's trial day, — 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 153 

What first your sleeping wrath awoke ? 
On your own shores war's 'larum broke ; 
What turned to gall e'en kindred blood ? 
Eound your own homes the oppressor stood : 
This every warm affection chilled ; 
This every heart with vengeance thrilled, 

And strengthened every hand ; 
From mound to mound 
The word went round — 
" Death for our native land ! " 

# # # * # 

Alas for them ! their day is o'er ; 
Their fires are out from hill and shore ; 
No more for them the wild deer bounds ; 
The plough is on their hunting-grounds ; 
The pale man's axe rings through their woods ; 
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods ; 

Their pleasant springs are dry ; 
Their children — look ! by power oppressed, 
Beyond the mountains of the west. 

Their children go — to die ! 

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But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace, 
To save his own, or serve another race ; 
With his frail breath his power has passed away ; 
His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay; 

Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page, 

Shall link him to a future age, 

Or give him with the past a rank ; 
His heraldry is but a broken bow, 
His history but a tale of wrong and woe ; 

His very name must be a blank. 

Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps ; 

O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; 
No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend, 
To bless his coming, and embalm his end ; 
E'en that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue ; 
By foes alone his death-song must be sung ; 

No chronicles but theirs shall tell 
His mournful doom to future times : 

May these upon his virtues dwell, 
And in his fate forget his crimes ! 



154 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE XLI. 
A SCENE IN A PRIVATE MAD-HOUSE. 

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! 

She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
For what I 'm now too well I know, 

And what I was, and what should be. 
I '11 rave no more in proud despair ; 

My language shall be mild, though sad ; 
But yet I '11 firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

My tyrant husband forged the tale 

Which chains me in this dismal cell ; 
My fate unknown my friends bewail ; 

Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell ! 
Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer ! 

His heart at once 't will grieve and glad 
To know, though kept a captive here, 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; 

He quits the grate ; — I knelt in vain ; 
His glimmering lamp still, still I see — 

'T is gone, and all is gloom again. 
Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! 

Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
Yet here I 'm chained this freezing night, 

Although not mad ! no, no, not mad ! 

T is sure some dream, some vision vain ; 

What! I — the child of rank and wealth,- 
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, 

Bereft of freedom, friends and health ? 
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, 

Which never more my heart must glad, 
How aches my heart, how burns my head ! 

But 't is not mad ! no, 't is not mad ! 

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 
A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? 

She '11 ne'er forget your parting kiss, 
Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 155 

Nor how with me you sued to stay ; 

Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; 
Nor how 1 '11 drive such thoughts away; 

They '11 make me mad ! they '11 make me mad ! 

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! 
None ever bore a lovelier child : — 

And art thou now forever gone? 
And must I never see thee more, 

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
I will be free ! unbar the door ! 

I am not mad ! I am not mad ! 

Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? 

His chain some furious madman breaks ; 
He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ! 

Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes ! 
Help ! help ! — He 's gone ! — Oh ! fearful woe, 

Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! 
My brain, my brain ! — I know, I know, 

I am not mad, but soon shall be ! 

Yes, soon ; — for, lo you ! — while I speak — 

Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare ! 
He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, 

He whirls a serpent high in air ! 
Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; 
Ay, laugh, ye fiends ! — I feel the truth ; 

Your task is done ! — I 'm mad ! I 'm mad ! 



EXERCISE XLII. 



The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior ! " 

His brow was sad ; his eye, beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 



156 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
" Excelsior ! " 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright : 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
" Excelsior ! " 

" Try not the pass!" the old man said; 

" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " — 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
"Excelsior!" 

" Oh ! stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " — 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
" Excelsior ! " 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; — 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
" Excelsior ! " 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
" Excelsior ! " 

A traveller, — by the faithful hound, 
Half buried in the snow, was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior ! " 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, — 
" Excelsior ! " 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 157 

EXERCISE XLIII. 
THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 

Up to the strife with care ; 

Be thine an oaken heart ! 
Life's daily contest nobly share, 

Nor act a craven part ! 
Give murmurs to the coward throng, — 
Be thine the joyous notes of song! 

If thrown upon the field, 

Up to the task once more ! 
'T is worse than infamy to yield, 

'T is childish to deplore : 
Look stern misfortune in the eye, 
And breast the billow manfully ! 

Close in with every foe, 

As thickly on they come ! 
They can but lay the body low, 

And send thy spirit home : — 
Yet may'st thou stout it out, and view 
What giant energy can do. 

Soon shall the combat cease, 

The struggle fierce and long, 
And thine be true, unbroken peace, 

And thine the victor's song : — 
Beyond the cloud, will wait for thee, 
The wreath of immortality. 



EXERCISE XL1V. 
THE MARINERS. 

How cheery are the mariners, — 

Those lovers of the sea ! 
Their hearts are like its yesty waves, 

As bounding and as free. 
They whistle when the storm-bird wheels, 

In circles, round the mast ; 
And sing, when, deep in foam, the ship 

Ploughs onward to the blast. 
14 



158 THE AMEEICAN SPEAKER. 

What care the mariners for gales ? 

There 's music in their roar, 
When wide the berth along the lee, 

And leagues of room before. 
Let billows toss to mountain heights, 

Or sink to chasms low ; 
The vessel stout will ride it out, 

Nor reel beneath the blow. 

With streamers down, and canvass furled, 

The gallant hull will float 
Securely, as on inland lake 

A silken-tasselled boat ; 
And sound asleep some mariners, 

And some with watchful eyes, 
Will fearless be of dangers dark, 

That roll along the skies. 

God keep these cheery mariners ! 

And temper all the gales, 
That sweep against the rocky coast, 

To their storm-shattered sails ; 
And men on shore will bless the ship 

That could so guided be, 
Safe in the hollow of His hand, 

To brave the mighty sea ! 



EXERCISE XLV. 
PLEA OF THE INDIAN. 

Oh ! why should the white man hang on my path, 

Like the hound on the tiger's track ? 
Does the flesh of my dark cheek waken his wrath ? 

Does he covet the bow at my back ? 

He has rivers and seas, where the billow and breeze 

Bear riches for him alone ; 
And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood 

That the white man calls his own. 

Then why should he covet the streams where none 

But the red skin dare to swim ? 
Oh ! why should he wrong the hunter, one 

Who never did harm to him ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 159 

The Father above thought fit to give 

To the white man corn and wine ; 
There are golden fields where he may live — 

But the forest wilds are mine. 

The eagle has its place of rest — 

The wild horse where to dwell ; 
And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest 

Gave me a home as well. 

Then back, go back, from the Red Man's track ! 

For the hunter's eye grows dim, 
To see that the white man wrongs the one 

Who never did harm to him. 



EXERCISE XLVI. 
THE REMOVAL. 

A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade, 
By which, though — it seems — he a fortune had made, 
Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town, 
Which he meant at his leisure to buy and pull down. 

This thought struck his mind, when he viewed the estate ; 
But alas ! when he entered he found it too late ; 
For in each dwelt a smith : — a more hard-working two 
Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe. 

At six in the morning, their anvils, at work, 
Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk; 
These fellows," he cried, " such a clattering keep, 
That I never can get above eight hours of sleep." 

From morning till night they keep thumping away ; 
No sound but the anvil the whole of the day ; 
His afternoon's nap, and his daughter's new song, 
Were banished and spoiled by their hammers' ding-dong. 

He offered each vulcan to purchase his shop ; 
But no ! they were stubborn, determined to stop : 
At length, (both his spirits and health to improve,) 
He cried, " I '11 give each fifty guineas to move." 



160 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

" Agreed !" said the pair; " that will make us amends." 
n Then come to my house, and let us part friends ; 
You shall dine ; and we '11 drink, on this joyful occasion, 
That each may live long in his new habitation." 

He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale,— 
He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale ; 
So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest 
Would take from him noise, and restore to him rest. 

" And now," said he, " tell me, where mean you to move ? — 

I hope to some spot where your trade will improve." 
" Why, sir," replied one, with a grin on his phiz, 
" Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his ! " 



EXERCISE XLVII. 
THE COLD-WATER MAN. 

There lived an honest fisherman — 
I knew him passing well — 

Who dwelt hard by a little pond, 
Within a little dell. 

A grave and quiet man was he, 
Who loved his hook and rod ; 

So even ran his line of life, 
His neighbors thought it odd. 

For science and for books, he said, 

He never had a wish ; 
No school to him was worth a fig, 

Except a " school" of fish. 

This single-minded fisherman 

A double calling had, — 
To tend his flocks in winter-time, 

In summer, fish for shad. 

In short, this honest fisherman 

All other toils forsook ; 
And, though no vagrant man was he, 

He lived by " hook and crook." 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 161 

All day that fisherman would sit 

Upon an ancient log, 
And gaze into the water, like 

Some sedentary frog. 

A cunning fisherman was he ; 

His angles all were right; 
And, when he scratched his aged poll, 

You 'd know he 'd got a bite. 

To charm the fish he never spoke, 

Although his voice was fine ; 
He found the most convenient way 

Was just to " drop a line." 

And many a " gudgeon " of the pond 

If made to speak to-day, 
Would own, with grief, this angler had 

A mighty " taking way." 

One day, while fishing on the log, 

He mourned his want of luck, — 
When, suddenly, he felt a bite, 

And, jerking — caught a duck ! 

Alas ! that day the fisherman 

Had taken too much grog ; 
And being but a landsman, too, 

He could n't " keep the log." 

In vain he strove with all his might, 

And tried to gain the shore ; — 
Down, down he went, to feed the fish 

He 'd. baited oft before ! 

The moral of this mournful tale 

To all is plain and clear : — 
A single " drop too much" of rum 

May make a watery bier. 

And he who will not " sign the pledge," 

And keep his promise fast, 
May be, in spite of fate, a stark 

Cold-water-man at last. 
14* 



162 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXEECISE XLVIII. 
THE GRAVE OF THE INDIAN CHIEF. 

They laid the corse of the wild and brave 
On the sweet fresh earth of the new-made grave, - 
On the gentle hill, where wild weeds wave, 
And flowers and grass were flourishing. 

They laid within the peaceful bed, 
Close by the Indian chieftain's head, 
His bow and arrows, — and they said 
That he had found new hunting-grounds, 

Where bounteous nature only tills 
The willing soil ; and o'er whose hills, 
And down beside the shady rills, 
The hero roams eternally. 

And these fair isles to the westward lie 
Beneath a golden sunset sky, 
Where youth and beauty never die, 
And song and dance move endlessly. 

They told of the feats of his dog and gun, 
They told of the deeds his arm had done ; 
They sung of battles lost and won, 
And so they paid his eulogy. 

And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones, 
They raised a simple pile of stones ; 
Which, hallowed by their tears and moans, 
Was all the Indian's monument. 

And since the chieftain here has slept, 
Full many a winter's winds have swept, 
And many an age has softly crept, 
Over his humble sepulchre. 



EXEECISE XLIX. 
UNIVERSAL FREEDOM. 

Oppression shall not always reign : 
There comes a brighter day, 

When freedom, burst from every chain, 
Shall have triumphant way. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 163 

Then right shall over might prevail ; 
And truth, like hero armed in mail, 
The hosts of tyrant wrong assail, 
And hold eternal sway. 

Even now, that glorious day draws near, 

Its coming is not far ; 
In earth and heaven its signs appear, 

We see its morning star ; 
Its dawn has flushed the eastern sky, 
The western hills reflect it high, 
The southern clouds before it fly ; — 

Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah ! 

It flashes on the Indian isles, 

So long to bondage given ; 
Their faded plains are decked in smiles, 

Their blood-stained fetters riven. 
Eight hundred thousand newly free 
Pour out their songs of jubilee, 
That shake the globe from sea to sea, 

As with a shout from heaven. 

That shout, which every bosom thrills, 

Has crossed the wondering main ; 
It rings in thunder o'er our hills, 

And rolls o'er every plain. 
The waves reply on every shore, 
Old Faneuil echoes to the roar, 
And " rocks " as it ne'er rocked before, 

And ne'er shall rock again. 



EXERCISE L. 

NEW ENGLAND. 

New England's soil, our happy home, 

The land of hardy worth, 
Where plenty crowns the social board, 

And love lights up the hearth ! 
The land of rock, and mount, and glen, 

Of noble streams that sweep, 
Through valleys rich in verdure, 

In gladness to the deep. 



164 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Blue are the arching skies above, 

And green the fields below ; 
And autumn fruits and summer flowers 

In wild profusion grow. 

The towering oak and ancient pine 

The noble forests bear, 
The maple bough its blossoms 

Flings on the scented air ; 
And flock, and herd, and waving grain, 

Each slope and upland crown; 
And autumn winds from laden bough 

The mellow fruits shake down : 
The waving wild flower tempts the bee, 

With soft and fragrant sigh ; 
And in tall ranks the glossy maize 

Points upward to the sky. 

No tyrant landlord wrings our soil, 

Or rends its fruit away ; 
The flocks upon our own green hills, 

Secure from plunder, stray. 
No bigot's scourge or martyr's fires 

A barbarous creed fulfil ; 
For the spirit of our stern old sires 

Is with their children still. 
And pure to heaven our altars rise, 

Upon a bloodless sod, 
Where man, with free, unfettered faith, 

Bows down and worships God. 

Our homes ! our dear New England homes ! 

Where sweet affections meet ; 
Where the cool poplar spreads its shade, 

And flowers our senses greet; 
The lily rears her polished cup, 

The rose as freshly springs, 
And to the sky looks gayly up, 

As in the courts of kings ; 
And the vine that climbs the window 

Hangs drooping from above, 
And sends its grateful odors in, 

With messages of love. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 165 

Then hail to thee, New England ! 

Thou cherished land of ours ; 
Our sons are like the granite rocks, 

Our daughters like the flowers. 
We quail to none, of none we crave, 

Nor bend the servile knee ; 
The life-blood that our fathers gave 

Still warms the firm and free. 
Free as our eagle spreads his wings, 

We own no tyrant's rod, 
No master but the King of kings, 

No monarch but our God ! 



EXEKCISE LI. 
THE OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure — 

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 
When, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 

Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 



166 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And now, far removed from that loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. 
The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 



EXERCISE LII. 
THE THRIVING FAMILY — THE STATES. 

Our father lives in Washington, 

And has a world of cares, 
But gives his children each a farm, 

Enough for them and theirs ; 
Full thirty well-grown sons has he, — 

A numerous race indeed, 
Married and settled, all, d'ye see, 

With boys and girls to feed. 
And if we wisely till our lands, 

We 're sure to earn a living, 
And have a penny, too, to spare, 

For spending or for giving. 
A thriving family are we, 

No lordling need deride us, 
For we know how to use our hands, 

And in our wits we pride us ; 
Hail, brothers, hail ! 

Let nought on earth divide us. 

Some of us dare the sharp north-east, 

Some, clover-fields are mowing ; 
And others tend the cotton-plants 

That keep the looms a-going. 
Some build and steer the white-winged ships, - 

And few in speed can mate them ; — 
While others rear the corn and wheat, 

Or grind the flour, to freight them. 
And if our neighbors o'er the sea 

Have e'er an empty larder, 
To send a loaf their babes to cheer, 

We '11 work a little harder. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 167 

No old nobility have we, 

No tyrant-king to ride us ; 
Our sages in the Capitol 

Enact the laws that guide us. 
Hail, brothers, hail ! 

Let nought on earth divide us. 

Some faults we have, — we can't deny 

A foible here and there ; 
But other households have the same, 

And so, we '11 not despair. 
'T will do no good to fume and frown, 

And call hard names, you see, 
And 't were a burning shame to part 

So fine a family. 
'T is but a waste of time to fret, 

Since nature made us one, 
For every quarrel cuts a thread 

That healthful love has spun. 
So draw the cords of union fast, 

Whatever may betide us, 
And closer cling through every blast, 

For many a storm has tried us. 
Hail, brothers, hail ! 

Let nought on earth divide us. 



EXERCISE LIH. 
THE POOR MAN. 

What man is poor ? Not he whose brow 

Is bathed in heaven's own light, 
Whose knee to God alone must bow, 

At morning and at night — 
Whose arm is nerved by healthy toil, 

Who sits beneath the tree, 
Or treads upon the fruitful soil, 

With spirit calm and free. 

Go, — let the proud his gems behold 
And view their sparkling ray, — 

No silver vase or yellow gold 
Can banish care away — 



168 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

He cannot know the thrilling dream, 
Which smiles within the cot, 

Where sunny looks and faces gleam 
To cheer the poor man's lot. 

What man is poor ? Not he whose brow 

Is wet with heaven's own dew, 
Who breathes to God the heart-felt vow, 

Whose pledge is deep and true. 
The morning calls his active feet 

To no enchanting dome, 
But evening, and the twilight sweet, 

Shall light his pathway home. 

There is a music in his ear, 

In the glad voice of his child ; 
His wife with hurried steps draws near, 

And spirit undefiled — 
Then turn not from the humble heart, 

Nor scorn its cheerful tone, 
For deeper feelings there may start 

Than the proud have ever known. 



EXERCISE LIV. 
THE VOICE OF LOVE. 

Oh ! never speak with angry tone 
To one within this erring world ! 

Let no vindictive look be shown, 
Nor be thy lip with passion curled ! 

For man at best is frail as dust, 

And God alone is truly just. 

Be kind to all, and thus fulfil 
The first great duty here below ; 

Let words of love their hearts distil, 
To mitigate thy brother's woe ; 

For though in pride and guilt he swells, 

His heart its own deep anguish tells. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 169 

In the deep chambers of the soul, 

To guilt there 's no approving sound, — 

But, ever heard, with fearful roll, 

Stern truth's rebukes are echoing round ; 

And ever deeper is their moan, 

As conscience feels the voice her own. 

Speak kindly to the little child, 

Lest from his heart you drive away 
The light of love, whose visions mild 

Are opening like the dawn of day : 
Force not one cloud across the heaven 
A God of love to him hath given. 

Speak kindly to each fallen one, 

Nor harshly judge his sinful deed ; 
There lives no soul beneath the sun 

That does not of compassion need ; 
Our race is erring at the best, 
And judgment is not thy behest. 

O, who can tell temptation's power 
Upon poor souls that yield to wrong ? 

Where one may see the storm-clouds lower, 
Another hears a siren song. 

My spirit loves the wind-god's wail, 

But thine may shudder at the gale. 

The soul is but a waiting lyre, 

Whose deep vibrations varied are, 
Each answering to its quivering wire, 

And to the force its touches bear : 
Not careless, then, your hands should stray, 
For fearful is the harp ye play. 



EXERCISE LV. 
THE COMING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

Behold ! they come — those sainted forms, 
Unshaken, through the strife of storms ; 
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, 
And earth puts on its rudest frown ; 
15 



170 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But colder, ruder was the hand 
That drove them from their own fair land, — 
Their own fair land, refinement's chosen seat, 
Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat ; 
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned, 
For all, but gentle charity, renowned. 

With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart, 
Even from that land they dared to part, 

And burst each tender tie ; 
Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed, 
Homes, where they fondly hoped, at last, 

In peaceful age, to die ; 
Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned, 

Their fathers' hallowed graves, 
And to a world of darkness turned, 
Beyond a world of waves. 

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They come — that coming who shall tell ? 
The eye may weep, the heart may swell, 
But the poor tongue in vain essays 
A fitting note for them to raise. 
We hear the after-shout that rings 
For them who smote the power of kings : 
The swelling triumph all would share ; 
But who the dark defeat would dare, 
And boldly meet the wrath and woe 
That wait the unsuccessful blow ? 

It were an envied fate, we deem, 
To live a land's recorded theme, 

When we are in the tomb : 
We, too, might yield the joys of home, 
And waves of winter darkness roam, 

And tread a shore of gloom, — 
Knew we those waves, through coming time, 
Should roll our names to every clime ; 
Felt we, that millions on that shore 
Should stand, our memory to adore. 
But no glad vision burst in light 
Upon the pilgrims' aching sight ; 
Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; 
Deep shadows veiled the way they held ; 
The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, 
Their monument, a grave without a name. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 171 

Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand, 

On yonder ice-bound rock, 
Stern and resolved, that faithful band, 

To meet fate's rudest shock. 
Though anguish rends the father's breast, 
For them, his dearest and his best, 

With him the waste who trod, — 
Though tears, that freeze, the mother shed 
Upon her children's houseless head, — 

The Christian turns to God ! 

In grateful adoration now, 

Upon the barren sands they bow. 

What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer 

As bursts in desolation there ? 

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power 

As waits to crown that feeble hour ? 
There into life an infant empire springs ! 

There falls the iron from the soul; 

There liberty's young accents roll 
Up to the King of kings ! 

To fair creation's furthest bound 

That thrilling summons yet shall sound; 

The dreaming nations shall awake, 
And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake ! 
Pontiff and prince, your sway 
Must crumble from that day ! 

Before the loftier throne of heaven, 

The hand is raised, the pledge is given — 
One monarch to obey, one creed to own, — 
That monarch, God, — that creed, his Word alone. 

Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; 
A zeal like this what pious legends tell ? 
On kingdoms built 
In blood and guilt, 
The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell ; 
But what exploit with theirs shall page, 

Who rose to bless their kind, — 
Who left their nation and their age, 
Man's spirit to unbind ? 



172 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Who boundless seas passed o'er, 
And boldly met, in every path, 
Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath, 
To dedicate a shore, 
Where piety's meek train might breathe their vow, 
And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; 
Where liberty's glad race might proudly come, 
And set up there an everlasting home ! 



EXERCISE LVI. 
OLD IRONSIDES. 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high ; 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, — once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, — 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh ! better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave : 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, — 

The lightning and the gale ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 173 



EXERCISE LVII. 
DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH, 

Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in 
the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from 
its course that the body might be interred. — Everett. 

When I am dead, no pageant train 
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, 

Nor worthless pomp of homage vain 
Stain it with hypocritic tear ; 

For I will die as I did live, 

Nor take the boon I cannot give. 

Ye shall not raise a marble bust 

Upon the spot where I repose ; 
Ye shall not fawn before my dust, 

In hollow circumstance of woes : 
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, 
Insult the clay that moulds beneath. 

Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, 
Your monuments upon my breast, 

Nor yet within the common soil 

Lay down the wreck of Power to rest, — 

Where man can boast that he has trod 

On him that was " the scourge of God." 

But ye the mountain stream shall turn, 

And lay its secret channel bare, 
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, 

A resting-place forever there : 
Then bid its everlasting springs 
Flow back upon the King of kings ; 
And never be the secret said, 
Until the deep give up his dead. 

My gold and silver ye shall fling 

Back to the clods that gave them birth ; — 

The captured crowns of many a king, 
The ransom of a conquered earth ; — 

For, e'en though dead, will I control 

The trophies of the capitoL 
15* 



174 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But when, beneath the mountain tide, 
Ye Ve laid your monarch down to rot, 

Ye shall not rear upon its side 
Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; 

For long enough the world has shook 
Beneath the terrors of my look ; 

And now that I have run my race, 

The astonished realms shall rest a space. 

My course was like a river deep, 
And from the northern hills I burst, 

Across the world in wrath to sweep, 
And where I went the spot was cursed; 

Nor blade of grass again was seen 

Where Alaric and his hosts had been. 

See how their haughty barriers fail 
Beneath the terror of the Goth ! 

Their iron-breasted legions quail 
Before my ruthless sabaoth, 

And low the queen of empires kneels, 

And grovels at my chariot-wheels ! 

Not for myself did I ascend 

In judgment my triumphal car ; 

'T was God alone on high did send 
The avenging Scythian to the war, 

To shake abroad, with iron hand, 

The appointed scourge of his command. 

With iron hand that scourge I reared 
O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; 

Destruction was the ship I steered, 
And vengeance sat upon the helm, 

When, launched in fury on the flood, 

I ploughed my way through seas of blood, 

And, in the stream their hearts had spilt, 

Washed out the long arrears of guilt. 

Across the everlasting Alp 

I poured the torrent of my powers, 

And feeble Caesars shrieked for help 

In vain within their seven-hilled towers ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 175 

I quenched in blood the brightest gem 
That glittered in their diadem, 
And struck a darker, deeper dye 
In the purple of their majesty, 
And bade my northern banners shine 
Upon the conquered Palatine. 

My course is run, my errand done : 

I go to him from whom I came ■ 
But never yet shall set the sun 

Of glory that adorns my name ; 
And Roman hearts shall long be sick, 
When men shall think of Alaric. 

My course is run, my errand done — 

But darker ministers of fate, 
Impatient round the eternal throne, 

And in the caves of vengeance, wait ; 
And soon mankind shall blench away 
Before the name of Attila. 



-*- 



EXERCISE LVHI. 
THE FARMER'S SONG. 

I envy not the mighty king 

Upon his splendid throne — 
Nor crave his glittering diadem, 

Nor wish his power my own ; 
For though his power and wealth be great, 

And thousands round him bow, 
In reverence — in my low state 

More solid peace I know. 

I envy not the miser ; — he 

May tell his treasures o'er, 
May heaps on heaps around him see, 

And toil and sigh for more : 
I 'd scorn his narrow, sordid soul, 

Rapacious and unjust ; 
Nor bow beneath the base control 

Of empty, gilded dust. 



176 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

My wants are few and well supplied 

By my productive fields ; 
I court no luxuries beside, 

Save what contentment yields. 
More pure enjoyment labor gives 

Than wealth or fame can bring, 
And he is happier who lives 

A farmer, than a king. 



EXERCISE LIX. 
EPILOGUE. 

Our parts are performed, and our speeches are ended,— 
We are monarchs, and courtiers, and heroes no more ; 

To a much humbler station again we 've descended, 

And are now but the schoolboys you 've known us before ; 

Farewell, then, our greatness ! — 't is gone like a dream ; 

'Tis gone — but remembrance will often retrace 
The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme, 

And the heart-cheering smiles that enlivened each face. 

We thank you ! — our gratitude words cannot tell, 

But deeply we feel it — to you it belongs ; 
With heartfelt emotion we bid you farewell, 

And our feelings now thank you much more than our 
tongues. 

We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us, 
That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks; 

And we hope to convince you, the next time you hear us, 
That praise has but sharpened our relish for books. 



EXERCISE LX. 
ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 

Good people all, with one accord, 
Lament for Madam Blaize ; 

Who never wanted a good word, — 
From those who spoke her praise. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 177 

The needy seldom passed her door, 

And always found her kind; 
She freely lent to all the poor, — 

Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please 

With manner wondrous winning; 
And never followed wicked ways, — 

Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 

With hoop of monstrous size, 
She never slumbered in her pew, — 

But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux, and more ; 
The king himself has followed her, — 

When she has walked before. 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short all, 
Her doctors found, when she was dead,— 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore ; 

For Kent-street well may say, 
That had she lived a twelvemonth more, — 

She had not died to-day. 



EXERCISE LXI. 
THE LIFE-BOAT; OR, THE WRECK ON THE BLACK MIDDENS. 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! see yon bark ! 

She drives before the wind — 
The rock's ahead — and, loud and dark, 

The raging storm behind ! 
No human power, in such an hour, 

Can avert the doom that 's o'er her : 
See ! the main-rnast 's gone, and she still drives on, 

To the yawning gulf before her : 
The life-boat ! man the life-boat ! 



178 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Quick! man the life-boat ! hark ! — the gun, 

That thunders through the air ! 
And see — the signal flag flies on, 

The emblem of despair! 
The forked flash, that pealing crash, 

Seemed from the wave to sweep her ; 
Ha! the ship has struck! — she's on the rock! — 

And the wail comes louder and deeper : 
The life-boat ! man the life-boat ! 

Quick ! man the life-boat! see — the crew 

Gaze on their watery grave : 
Already some — a gallant few — 

Are battling with the wave ; 
And one there stands and wrings his hands, 

As thoughts of home come o'er him : 
For his wife and child, through the tempest wild, 

He sees on the heights before him. 
The life-boat ! man the life-boat ! 

Speed, speed the life-boat ! — off she goes ! 

And as they pulled the oar, 
From shore and ship a shout arose, 

That startled ship and shore : 
Life-saving ark ! yon doomed bark 

Has immortal souls within her ; 
More than gems or gold is the wealth untold 

Thou 'It save, if thou canst but win her : 
The life-boat ! speed the life-boat ! 

Hurrah ! the life-boat dashes on ! 

The Middens darkly frown ; 
The rock is there — the ship is gone 

Full twenty fathoms down ; 
But desperate men were battling then, 

With the billows, single-handed ; — 
They are all in the boat ! — hurrah ! they 're afloat !- 

And now they are safely landed : 
Hurrah ! hurrah for the life-boat ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 179 

EXERCISE LXII. 
THE STEAMBOAT. 

See how yon flaming herald treads 

The ridged and rolling waves, 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 

She bows her surly slaves ! 
With foam before and fire behind, 

She rends the clinging sea, 
That flies before the roaring wind, 

Beneath her hissing lee. 

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, 

With heaped and glistening bells, 
Falls round her fast in ringing showers, 

With every wave that swells ; 
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, 

In lurid fringes thrown, 
The living gems of ocean sweep 

Along her flashing zone. 

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 

And smoking torch on high, 
When winds are loud, and billows reel, 

She thunders foaming by ! 
When seas are silent and serene, 

With even beam she glides, 
The sunshine glimmering through the green 

That skirts her gleaming sides. 

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 

She veils her shadowy form, 
The beating of her restless heart 

Still sounding through the storm; 
Now answers, like a courtly dame, 

The reddenning surges o'er, 
With flying scarf of spangled flame, 

The Pharos of the shore 

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, 
• Who trims his narrowed sail ; 
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 
Her broad breast to the gale ; 



180 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And many a foresail, scooped and strained, 
Shall break from yard and stay, 

Before this smoky wreath has stained 
The rising mist of day. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shrouds, — 

I see yon quivering mast : 
The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast ! 
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff, 

White as the sea bird's wing ! 

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ! 

Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 

With floods of living fire ; 
Sleep on — and when the morning's light 

Streams o'er the shining bay, 
Oh, think of those for whom the night 

Shall never wake in day ! 



EXERCISE LXIH. 
THE INQUIRY. 

Tell me, ye winged winds, 
That round my pathway roar, 
Do ye not know some spot 
Where mortals weep no more ? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 
Some valley in the west, 
Where, free from toil and pain, 
The weary soul may rest ? 
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, 
And sighed for pity, as it answered, " No ! " 

Tell me, thou mighty deep, 
Whose billows round me play, 
Knowest thou some favored spot, 
Some island far away, 



THE AMERICA^ SPEAKER. 181 

Where weary man may find 

The bliss for which he sighs, 

Where sorrow never lives, 

And friendship never dies ? 
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, 
Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer, " No ! " 

And thou, serenest moon, 

That with such holy face 

Dost look down upon the earth, 

Asleep in night's embrace — 

Tell me, in all thy round, 

Hast thou not seen some spot, 

Where miserable man 

Might find a happier lot ? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
And a sweet voice, but sad, responded, " No ! " 

Tell me, my sacred soul ; 

Oh ! tell me, hope and faith, 

Is there no resting place 

From sorrow, sin, and death? 

Is there no happy spot, 

Where mortals may be blessed, 

Where grief may find a balm, 

And weariness a rest ? 
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given, 
Waved their bright wings, and answered, " Yes, in Heaven ! " 



EXERCISE LXIV. 
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 

'Tis midnight, — all is peace profound ! 
But lo ! upon the murmuring ground, 
The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound 

Of distant wheels is heard ! 
They come, — they pause a moment, — when, 
Their charge resigned, they start, and then 
Are gone, and all is hushed again, 

As not a leaf had stirred. 
16 



182 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Hast thou a parent far away, 
A beauteous child, to be thy stay 
In life's decline, — or sisters, they 

Who shared thine infant glee ? 
A brother on a foreign shore, 
Whose breast thy chosen token bore ? 
Or are thy treasures wandering o'er 

A wide, tumultuous sea ? 

If aught like these, then thou must feel 
The rattling of that reckless wheel, 
That brings the bright or boding seal, 

On every trembling thread 
That strings thy heart, till morn appears 
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, 
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, 

As line on line is read. 

Perhaps thy treasure 's in the deep, 

Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, 

Thy brother where thou canst not weep 

Upon his distant grave ! 
Thy parent's hoary head no more 
May shed a silver lustre o'er 
His children grouped, — nor death restore 

Thy son from out the waves ! 

Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled, 
Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled, 
Thy blooming bride perchance has filled 

Her corner of the tomb. 
May be, the home where all thy sweet 
And tender recollections meet, 
Has shown its flaming winding-sheet 

In midnight's awful gloom ! 

And while, alternate o'er my soul 
Those cold or burning wheels will roll 
Their chill or heat, beyond control, 

Till morn shall bring relief, — 
Father in heaven, whatever may be 
The cup which thou hast sent for me, 
I know 'tis good, prepared by thee, 

Though filled with joy or grief! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 183 

EXERCISE LXV. 
THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND. 

A poor wayfaring man of grief 

Has often crossed me on my way, 
And sued so humbly for relief, 

That I could never answer " Nay : " 
I had not power to ask his name, 
Whither he went, or whence he came, — 
Yet was there something in his eye, 
That won my love, I knew not why. 

Once, when my scanty meal was spread, 

He entered ; not a word he spake ; 
Just perishing for want of bread ; 

I gave him all ; he blessed it, brake, 
And ate, — but gave me part again; 
Mine was an angel's portion then, 
For while I fed with eager haste, 
That crust was manna to my taste. 

I spied him where a fountain burst 

Clear from the rock; his strength was gone; 

The heedless water mocked his thirst; 
He heard it, saw it hurrying on ; 

I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 

Thrice from the stream he drained my cup, 

Dipped, and returned it running o'er ; 

I drank, and never thirsted more. 

'T was night ; the floods were out ; it blew 

A winter hurricane aloof; 
I heard his voice abroad, and flew 

To bid him welcome to my roof; 
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest, — 
Laid him on my couch to rest ; 
Then made the hearth my bed, and seemed 
In Eden's garden while I dreamed. 

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, 

I found him by the highway side ; 
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, 

Revived his spirit, and supplied 



184 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was healed ; 
I had myself a wound concealed, — 
But from that hour forgot the smart, 
And peace bound up my broken heari 

In prison I saw him next, condemned 

To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; 

The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, 

And honored him midst shame and scorn : 
My friendship's utmost zeal to try, 
He asked, if I for him would die ; 
The flesh was weak, — my blood ran chill, - 
But the free spirit cried, "I will." 

Then in a moment to my view 

The stranger darted from disguise, — 

The tokens in his hands I knew, — 
My Saviour stood before mine eyes ! 

He spake ; and my poor name he named : 
" Of me thou hast not been ashamed : 

These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 

Fear not, thou didst them unto me." 



EXERCISE LXVL 
HOPE. 

There 's nought which can the mind allay, 
When threatening storms portentous roll, 

Or can the mighty current stay, 

Which sweeps its waters o'er the soul, 

Like Hope, sweet messenger of love, 

Which doth our deepest feelings move. 

When melancholy comes like night, 
And casts its shadows o'er the mind ; 

When grief advances like a blight, 
And sadness follows on behind ; 

Ah ! then it is that Hope shines bright, 

And paints the future for our sight. 

When friends desert, and kind ones chide, 
And all bespeak of coming woe, — 

When envy pours its darkest tide, 
The purity of heart to flow ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 185 

Oh ! then comes Hope, a beaming star, 
Whose kindly rays shine from afar ! 

When the proud youth by poverty 

Is bowed in spirit down to earth, 
What is it bids his pinions try 

And 'scape the overwhelming dearth, 
But Hope, which, like a fancied dream, 
Pours o'er his soul her silvery stream. 

When all that Hope has painted bright, — 
Her fancied wealth, and promised fame,— 

Do disappoint our ardent sight, 

And quench ambition's burning flame, 

E'en then she shows her deepest power, 

And bears us through the trying hour. 

When Death her seal stamps on the brow, 

And all the soul has sought to win 
O'erwhelm the mind in anguish now, 

And all is bitterness within, — 
Oh, then comes Hope, and points him where 
His home shall be surpassing fair. 



EXERCISE LXVII. 
FREEDOM. 

The songs of freedom long have pealed 

Above our hills and plains, 
And nature loves to sympathize, 

And echo back their strains. 
Man ne'er was made to waste beneath 

A cruel despot's sway, 
To shrink with terror at his word, 

And his false laws obey. 

Ye nations, that in bondage writhe, 

Assert the bold decree, 
That liberty was made for all, 

And ye will now be free ! 
17* 



186' THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Strike off the fetters from your limbs, 
And plant your standard fair 

Upon the rock of liberty, 
To wave forever there ! 

America, blest land ! has found 

The boon ye well may crave ; 
And may our western breezes bear 

Its influence o'er the wave, 
Till Europe's sons shall proudly rise, 

And crush the tyrant's power, 
And dissipate the threatening clouds, 

That now above her lower ! 

And let their song of triumph be, 

Long live fair Freedom's cause ! — 
Long live the power that deigned to crush 

The despot's unjust laws ! 
Then man shall learn to know mankind, 

And knowledge shall increase, 
And nations prize the precious gifts 

Of liberty and peace. 



EXERCISE LXVII1. 



Oh ! lady, buy these budding flowers, 

For I am sad, and wet, and weary. 
I gathered them ere break of day, 

When all was lonely, still, and dreary : 
And long I 've sought to sell them here, 

To purchase clothes, and food, and dwelling, 
For Valor's wretched orphan girls — 

Poor me, and my young sister Ellen ! 

Ah ! those who tread life's thornless way, 

In fortune's golden sunshine basking, 
May deem my wants require no aid, 

Because my lips are mute, unasking; 
They have no heart for woes like mine ; 

Each word, each look, is cold — repelling; 
Yet once a crowd of flatterers fawned, 

And fortune smiled on me and Ellen ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 187 

Oh ! buy my flowers ; they 're fair and fresh 

As mine and morning's tears could keep them ! 
To-morrow's sun shall see them dead, 

And I shall scarcely live to weep them ! 
Yet this sweet bud, if nursed with care, 

Soon into fulness would be swelling ; 
And, nurtured by some generous hand, 

So might my little sister Ellen ! 

She 's sleeping in the hollow tree, 

Her only home — its leaves her bedding ; 
And I 've no food to carry there, 

To soothe the tears which she '11 be shedding. 
Oh ! that those mourners' tears which fall, 

That bell, which heavily is knelling, 
And that deep grave, were meant for me, 

And my poor little sister Ellen ! 

When we in silence are laid down 

In life's last fearless, blessed sleeping, 
No tears wdll fall upon our grave, 

Save those of pitying Heaven's own weeping. 
Unknown we 've lived, unknown must die ; 

No tongue the mournful tale be telling 
Of two young, broken-hearted girls — 

Poor Mary and her sister Ellen ! 

No one has bought of me to-day, 

And night is now the town o'ershading ; 
And I, like these poor drooping flowers, 

Unnoticed and unwept, am fading ; 
My soul is struggling to be free — 

It loathes its wretched earthly dwelling ! 
My limbs refuse to bear their load — 

Oh God, protect lone orphan Ellen ! 



EXERCISE LXIX. 
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 

Wake your harp's music ! — louder, — higher, 

And pour your strains along ; 
And smite again each quivering wire, 

In all the pride of song ! 



188 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Shout like those godlike men of old, 

Who, daring storm and foe, 
On this blessed soil their anthem rolled, 

Two hundred years ago ! 

From native shores by tempests driven, 

They sought a purer sky, 
And found, beneath a milder heaven, 

The home of liberty ! 
An altar rose, — and prayers, — a ray 

Broke on their night of woe, — 
The harbinger of Freedom's day, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 

They clung around that symbol too, 

Their refuge and their all ; 
And swore, while skies and waves were blue 

That altar should not fall ! 
They stood upon the red man's sod, 

'Neath heaven's unpillared bow, 
With home — a country, and a God, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 

Oh ! 't was a hard, unyielding fate 

That drove them to the seas, 
And Persecution strove with Hate, 

To darken her decrees : 
But safe, above each coral grave, 

Each blooming ship did go, — 
A God was on the western wave, 

Two hundred years ago ! 

They knelt them on the desert sand, 

By waters cold and rude, 
Alone upon the dreary strand 

Of oceaned solitude ! 
They looked upon the high blue air, 

And felt their spirits glow, 
Resolved to live or perish there, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 

The warrior's red right arm was bared, 
His eyes flashed deep and wild : 

Was there a foreign footstep dared 
To seek his home and child ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 189 

The dark chiefs yelled alarm, — and swore 

The white man's blood should flow, 
And his hewn bones should bleach their shore, — 

Two hundred years ago ! 

But lo ! the warrior's eye grew dim, — 

His arm was left alone ; — 
The still, black wilds which sheltered him, 

No longer were his own ! 
Time fled, — and on the hallowed ground 

His highest pine lies low, — 
And cities swell where forests frowned 

Two hundred years ago ! 



Oh ! stay not to recount the tale, — 

'T was bloody, and 't is past ; 
The firmest cheek might well grow pale, 

To hear it to the last. 
The God of heaven, who prospers us, 

Could bid a nation grow, 
And shield us from the red man's curse, 

Two hundred years ago ! 

Come, then, — great shades of glorious men, 

From your still glorious grave ! 
Look on your own proud land again, 

O bravest of the brave ! 
We call you from each mouldering tomb, 

And each blue wave below, 
To bless the world ye snatched from doom, 

Two hundred years ago ! 

Then to your harps ! — yet louder, — higher, 

And pour your strains along, — 
And smite again each quivering wire, 

In all the pride of song ! 
Shout for those godlike men of old, 

Who, daring storm and foe, 
On this blessed soil their anthem rolled, 

Two hundred years ago ! 



190 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXX. 
A LEGEND. 

The hunter went forth with his dog and gun, 

In the earliest glow of the golden sun ; 

The trees of the forest bent over his way, 

In the changeful colors of autumn gay ; 

For a frost had fallen, the night before, 

On the quiet greenness which nature wore : — 

A bitter frost ! — for the night was chill, 
And starry and dark, and the wind was still ; 
And so, when the sun looked out on the hills, 
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills, 
The unvaried green of the landscape fled, 
And a wild, rich robe was given instead, 

We know not whither the hunter went, 

Or how the last of his days was spent; 

For the noon drew nigh; but he came not back, 

Weary and faint, from his forest-track; 

And his wife sat down to her frugal board, 

Beside the empty seat of her lord. 

And the day passed on, and the sun came down 
To the hills of the west like an angel's crown ; 
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill, 
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill, 
Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled 
All over the west like a wave of gold. 

Yet he came not back — though the stars gave forth 

Their wizard light to the silent earth ; 

And his wife looked out from the lattice dim, 

In the earnest manner of fear, for him ; 

And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood 

To welcome his father back from the wood ! 

He came not back — yet they found him soon, 
In the burning light of the morrow's noon, 
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death, 
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath ; 
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet, 
Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 191 

He slept in death ! — but his sleep was one 

Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon : 

For his brow was black, and his open eye 

Was red with the sign of agony ; — 

And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim, 

That an evil deed had been done on him. 

They buried him where his fathers laid, 
By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade ; 
Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead, 
And beldames muttered while prayers were said ; 
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed 
The damp earth down on the hunter's breast. 

The seasons passed ; and the autumn rain 
And the colored forest returned again : 
'T was the very eve that the hunter died ; 
The winds wailed over the bare hill-side, 
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook 
Their red leaves over the swollen brook. 

There came a sound on the night-air then. 

Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men ; 

And louder and shriller it rose again, 

Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain ; 

And trembled alike the timid and brave, 

For they knew that it came from the hunter's grave ! 

And, every year, when autumn flings 
Its beautiful robe on created things, 
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain, 
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again, 
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth, 
Like the howl of a demon, struggling forth ! 



EXERCISE LXXI. 
THE HAPPY HOME. 



I love the hearth where evening brings 
Her loved ones from their daily tasks, — 

Where Virtue spreads her spotless wings, 
And Vice, fell serpent ! never basks ; 



192 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Where sweetly rings upon the ear 
The blooming daughter's gentle song, 

Like heavenly music whispered near, 
While thrilling hearts the notes prolong. 

For there the father sits in joy, 

And there the cheerful mother smiles, 
And there the laughter-loving boy, 

With sportive tricks, the eve beguiles ; 
And love, beyond what worldlings know, 

Like sunlight on the purest foam, 
Descends, and with its cheering glow 

Lights up the Christian's happy home. 

Contentment spreads her holy calm 

Around a resting-place so bright, 
And gloomy Sorrow finds a balm 

In gazing at so fair a sight ; 
The world's cold selfishness departs, 

And Discord rears its front no more ; 
There Pity's pearly tear-drop starts, 

And Charity attends the door. 

No biting scandal, fresh from hell, 

Grates on the ear, or scalds the tongue ; 
There kind remembrance loves to dwell, 

And virtue's meed is sweetly sung ; 
And human nature soars on high, 

Where heavenly spirits love to roam, 
And Vice, as stalks it rudely by, 

Admires the Christian's happy home. 

Oft have I joined the lovely ones 

Around the bright and cheerful hearth, 
With father, mother, daughters, sons, 

The brightest jewels of the earth ; 
And while the world grew dark around, 

And Fashion called her senseless throng 
I Ve fancied it was holy ground, 

And that fair girl's a seraph's song. 

And swift as circles fade away, 
Upon the bosom of the deep, 

When pebbles, tossed by boys at play, 
Disturb its still and glassy sleep, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 193 

The hours have sped in pure delight, 

And wandering feet forgot to roam, 
While waved the banners of the night 

Above the Christian's happy home. 

The rose that blooms in Sharon's vale, 

And scents the purple morning's breath, 
May in the shades of evening fail. 

And bend its crimson head in death ; 
And earth's bright ones amid the tomb 

May like the blushing rose decay ; 
But still the mind, the mind shall bloom 

When time and nature fade away. 

And there, amid a holier sphere, 

Where the archangel bows in awe, 
Where sits the King of glory near, 

And executes his perfect law, 
The ransomed of the earth, with joy, 

Shall in their robes of beauty come, 
And find a rest, without alloy, 

Amid the Christian's happy home. 



EXERCISE LXXII. 
OLD MASSACHUSETTS. 

The nation's wreath is lit with stars, 

A bright and glorious number ; 
And o'er them Freedom's eagle keeps 

A watch that knows no slumber. 
In every gem that garland bears 

Their beauty hath a dwelling ; 
Yet beams old Massachusetts' star 

With lustre far excelling. 

A halo gilds Virginia's name, 

For Yorktown tells a story; 
New York hath. Saratoga's fame, 

And Jersey, Monmouth's glory ; 
Points Delaware to Brandy wine, 

And La Fayette, the finger ; 
And still, o'er Carolina's fields, 

Doth Eutaw's memory linger. 
17 



194 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Vermont may boast of Bennington, 

And Pennsylvania wonder 
O'er unforgotten Valley Forge, 

And Red Bank's fatal thunder. 
But oh, 't is Massachusetts tells 

Of Bunker's fame ne'er ending, 
And guards their dust who earliest died 

Their inborn rights defending. 

Ay, on her 'scutcheon, blazoned high, 

Eead Lexington's invasion, 
Where cannon-peal and rolling drum 

To freedom woke a nation. 
Those mossy walls, whence death-shots fell, 

Like hail, upon the foeman, 
Speak prouder things than Grecian fanes, 

More glorious than the Roman ! 

They heard the knell of Britain's power, 

When first in thunder given ; 
They first caught Freedom's 'larum-cry, 

And echoed it to heaven ! 
They saw the bloody fountain ope, 

To seal her priceless charter ; 
And heard the latest anguished prayer 

Of Freedom's earliest martyr. 

Time-honored Massachusetts ! thou 

A sacred trust art keeping ; 
For there the dust of pilgrim sires, 

And patriots, is sleeping : 
Their names are whispered on the hills, 

And murmured by the fountain ; 
And tireless echoes fling them back, 

From valley, rock, and mountain ! 

And never shall thy sons forget 

The " haunted air " they 're breathing ; 
Bold hearts shall guard the altar-fires 

Their fathers died bequeathing. 
While Bunker lifts its awful height, 

And Boston lives in story, 
Shall Massachusetts guard her trust, 

And hand it down in glory. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 195 

EXERCISE LXXHI. 
LOOK ALOFT. 

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, — 
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, — 
" Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 

If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow, 
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe, 
Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are arrayed, 
" Look aloft," to the friendship which never shall fade. 

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, 
Like the tints, of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, 
" Look aloft," to the sun that is never to set. 

Should they who are nearest and dearest thy heart, — 
Thy friends and companions, — in sorrow depart, 
" Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, 
To that soil " where affection is ever in bloom." 

And oh ! when Death comes in his terrors, to cast 
His fears on the future, his pall on the past, 
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, 
And a smile in thine eye, " look aloft," and depart. 



EXERCISE LXXIV. 



Press on ! there 's no such word as fail ! 

Press nobly on ! the goal is near ; — 
Ascend the mountain ! breast the gale ! 

Look upward, onward, never fear ! 
Why should'st thou faint ? Heaven smiles above, 

Though storm and vapor intervene ; 
That sun shines on, whose name is Love, 

Serenely o'er life's shadowed scene. 



196 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Press on ! surmount the rocky steeps, 

Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch ; 
He fails alone who feebly creeps, 

He wins who dares the hero's march* 
Be thou a hero ! let thy might 

Tramp on eternal snows its way, 
And, through the ebon walls of night, 

Hew down a passage unto day. 

Press on ! if once and twice thy feet 

Slip back and stumble, harder try ; 
From him who never dreads to meet 

Danger and death, they 're sure to fly. 
To coward ranks the bullet speeds, 

While on their breasts who never quail 
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, 

Bright courage, like a coat of mail. 

Press on ! if Fortune play thee false 

To-day, to-morrow she '11 be true ; 
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts, 

Taking old gifts and granting new. 
The wisdom of the present hour 

Makes up for follies past and gone — 
To weakness strength succeeds, and power 

From frailty springs — press on ! press on ! 

Press on ! what though upon the ground 

Thy love has been poured out like rain ? 
That happiness is always found 

The sweetest which is born of pain. 
Oft mid the forest's deepest glooms, 

A bird sings from some blighted tree, 
And in the drearest desert blooms 

A never dying rose for thee. 

Therefore, press on ! and reach the goal, 

And gain the prize, and wear the crown : 
Faint not ! for to the steadfast soul 

Come wealth, and honor, and renown. 
To thine own self be true, and keep 

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil ; 
Press on ! and thou shalt surely reap 

A heavenly harvest for thy toil ! 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 197 

EXERCISE LXXV. 



All 's for the best ; be sanguine and cheerful ; 

Troubles and sorrow are friends in disguise ; 
Nothing but Folly goes faithless and fearful ; 

Courage forever is happy and wise : 
All 's for the best — if man would but know it; 

Providence wishes us all to be blest ; 
This is no dream of the pundit or poet ; 

Heaven is gracious, and — All 's for the best ! 

All 's for the best ! set this on your standard, 

Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love, 
Who to the shores of Despair may have wandered, 

A way-wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove : 
All 's for the best ! — be a man but confiding, 

Providence tenderly governs the rest, 
And the frail bark of his creature is guiding, 

Wisely and warily, all for the best. 

All 's for the best ! then fling away terrors, 

Meet all your fears and your foes in the van, 
And in the midst of your dangers or errors, 

Trust like a child, while you strive like a man : 
All 's for the best ! — unbiased, unbounded, 

Providence reigns from the east to the west ; 
And by both wisdom and mercy surrounded, 

Hope and be happy that — All 's for the best. 



EXERCISE LXXVI. 
THE FLOWER. 

Far in a wood, apart from men, 

Where curious eye ne'er spied around, 

A little flower I chanced to ken, 

Scarce raised an inch above the ground. 

Between a brooklet's banks it grew, 
Within a stone's obscuring shade, 

And there displayed its heavenly hue, 
And there a perfumed presence made. 
17* 



198 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

It could not hope for flattering eye, 
So doubly hid from human view ; 

"Set did not therefore droop and die, 
But sought its perfect work to do. 

It took the virtues nature brought — 
Earth to its roots, and to its leaves 

The moisty air, and then it sought 

The chemic tints which sunshine gives. 

Thus constant grew this tiny flower, 
Absorbing every influence good, 

Till ripened in a summer's hour, 

It scattered seed throughout the wood. 

Thus have I known, too, humble worth, 
Neglected, hid, and pressed by want, 

Still firm in virtue and in truth, 
Aspiring, like the lowly plant ! 



EXERCISE LXXVIL 
UPWARD ONWARD. 

This your watchword, glorious one, 
While contending with your lot ; 
Rest not till the race be done, 
And the glorious goal be won, — 
Upward — onward — falter not. 

Onward through the mists of error, 
Fearless moving, clear the way ; 
Acting right, ye '11 know no terror, 
Though the storm comes near and nearer, 
Upward — onward — watch and pray. 

Sit not down in brooding sorrow, — 

Joy unseen may yet be near ; 
Let your heart no trouble borrow, 
Bright the day that dawns to-morrow, — 
Upward — onward* — never fear. 

Action — action; time is speeding, 

And your years are short and few; 
Work ye must, the foremost leading, 
Rain and storm but little heeding ; 
Upward — onward — firm and true. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 199 

From the past a lesson learning, 

Onward move, by duty led ; 
With a truthful eye discerning 
Right from wrong, nor backward turning, — 

Upward — onward — straight ahead. 

Let no thought of gain or power 

Swerve you from the path of right ; 
Virtue is a diamond dower, 
Growing brighter every hour ; 

Upward — onward — day and night. 

Though life's tempests round you gather, 

Tremble not, but press the sod 
With firmer step, the storm you '11 weather, 
Pulling heart and head together ; 

Upward — onward — trust in God. 



EXERCISE LXXVIII. 
ALL IS ACTION, ALL IS MOTION. 

All is action, all is motion, 
In this mighty world of ours ; 

Like the current of the ocean, 
Man is urged by unseen powers ! 

Steadily, but strongly moving, 

Life is onward evermore, 
Still the present age improving 

On the age that went before. 

Duty points, with outstretched fingers, 

Every soul to actions high ; 
Woe betide the soul that lingers ! — 

Onward ! onward ! is the cry. 

Though man's foes may seem victorious 
War may waste and famine blight, 

Still from out the conflict glorious 
Mind comes forth with added light ! 

O'er the darkest night of sorrow, 
From the deadliest field of strife, 

Dawns a clearer, brighter morrow, 
Springs a truer, nobler life. 



200 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Onward, onward, onward ever ! 

Human progress none may stay ; 
All who make the vain endeavor, 

Shall, like chaff, be swept away. 



EXERCISE LXXIX. 
TRY KEEP TRYING. 

Have your efforts proved in vain ? 
Do not sink to earth again ; 

Try — keep trying : 
They who yield can nothing do — 
A feather's weight will break them through ; 

Try — keep trying: 
On yourself alone relying, 
You will conquer ; try — keep trying. 

Falter not — but upward rise, 
Put forth all your energies; 

Try — keep trying: 
Every step that you progress 
Will make your future effort less : 

Try — keep trying: 
On the truth and God relying, 
You will conquer; try — keep trying. 

Ponderous barriers you may meet, 
But against them bravely beat : 

Try — keep trying: 
Nought should drive you from the track, 
Or turn you from your purpose back, 

Try — keep trying : 
On yourself alone relying, 
You will conquer; try — keep trying. 

You will conquer if you try — 
Win the good before you die ; 

Try — keep trying: 
Remember — nothing is so true, 
As they who dare will ever do ; 

Try — keep trying : 
On yourself and God relying, 
You will conquer; try — keep trying. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 201 

EXERCISE LXXX. 
THE WORLD AS IT IS. 

This world is not so bad a world 

As some would like to make it; 
Though whether good or whether bad, 

Depends on how we take it. 
For if we scold and fret all day, 

From dewy morn till even, 
This world will ne'er afford to man 

A foretaste here of heaven. 

This world in truth 's as good a world 

As e'er was known to any, 
Who have not seen another yet, 

And these are very many ; 
And if the men, and women too, 

Have plenty of employment, 
Those surely must be hard to please 

Who cannot find enjoyment. 

This world is quite a clever world, 

In rain or pleasant weather, 
If people would but learn to live 

In harmony together ; 
Nor seek to burst the kindly bond 

By love and peace cemented, 
And learn that best of lessons yet, 

Always to be contented. 

Then were the world a pleasant world, 

And pleasant folks were in it; 
The day would pass most pleasantly 

To those who thus begin it; 
And all the nameless grievances 

Brought on by borrowed troubles, 
Would prove, as certainly they are, 

A mass of empty bubbles ! 



202 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXXXI. 
PHILOSOPHY OF ENDURANCE. 

Were the lonely acorn never bound 
In the rude, cold grasp of the rotting ground ; 
Did the rigid frost never harden up 
The mould above its bursting cup; 
Were it never soaked by the rain or hail, 
Or chilled by the breath of the wintry gale, 
It would not sprout in the sunshine free, 
Or give the promise of a tree ; 
It would not spread to the summer air 
Its lengthening boughs and branches fair, 
To form a bower where in starry nights 
Young love might dream unknown delights ; 
Or stand in the woods among its peers, 
Fed by the dews of a thousand years. 

Were never the dull, unseemly ore 
Dragged from the depths where it slept of yore; 
Were it never cast into scorching flame, 
To be purged of impurity and shame ; 
Were it never molten 'mid burning brands, 
Or bruised and beaten by stalwart hands, 
It would never be known as a thing of worth ; 
It would never emerge to a noble birth ; 
It would never be formed into mystic rings, 
To fetter love's erratic wings ; 
It would never shine amid priceless gems, 
On the girth of imperial diadems; 
Nor become to the world a power and pride, 
Cherished adored, and deified. 

So, then, O man of a noble soul, 
Starting in view of a glorious goal, 
Wert thou never exposed to the blasts, forlorn, — 
The storms of sorrow, — the sleets of scorn; 
Wert thou never refined in pitiless fire, 
From the dross of thy sloth and mean desire ; 
Wert thou never taught to feel and know 
That the truest love has its roots in woe, 
Thou wouldst never unriddle the complex plan 
Or reach half way to the perfect man ; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 203 

Thou wouldst never attain the tranquil height, 
Where wisdom purifies the sight, 
And God unfolds to the humble gaze 
The bliss and beauty of his ways. 



EXERCISE LXXXIT. 
THE STORM. 

A drowsy stillness steals along the plain; 
The leaves hang motionless on every tree ; 
The twittering swallow glides along the ground, 
While cautious pigeons seek the sheltering eaves. 
The geese, that o'er the green so stately stalked. 
Fly towards the gloomy west with heavy wing, 
And give a noisy welcome to the rain. 
The cattle from the hills come early home, 
And from the fallow ground the laborer turns, 
Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye 
That reads the secrets of the heavens as well 
As though it opened first in Chaldea's land. 
Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs, 
And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust ; 
The town-returning wagon faster moves, 
And down the hill, and o'er the sandy plain, 
The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin, 
His horn's wild music swelling on the ear. 

*?\? "A* W *A? *7? 

Flash after flash lights up the dreaded scene, 
And answering thunder speaks from every cloud, 
While the deep caverns of the ocean swell 
Their mystic voices in the chorus grand. 
Men sit in silence now, with anxious looks, 
While timid mothers seek their downy beds, 
And press their wailing infants to their breasts. 

From her low lattice by the cottage door, 
The anxious housewife marks the pelting storm; 
Sees the adventurous traveller onward go, 
Seeking his distant hamlet ere the night 
Adds tenfold horrors to the dismal scene. 
Swiftly the steed bounds o'er the woodland plain, 
While hope beams brightly from the rider's eye, 



204 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

When lo ! a crimson flash, with peal sublime, 
Instant as thought, and terrible as death, 
Around her bursts. Blinded she starts, then sees 
Again. The horse and his bold rider lie 
Hushed in the marble sleep that lasts through time ; 
And while the wind howls mournfully around, 
The forest owns the baptism of fire. 

The onset o'er, in mingled fire and hail, 

Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls. 

The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide 

The earth's brown bosom ; and the foaming brooks 

Go singing down the hills, and through the vales, 

Like happy children when their tasks are o'er. 

A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals, 

And then, amid the broad and crimson glow, 

O'er western hills, a golden spot appears, 

That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes, 

Like Heaven's first smile upon the dying's face. 

'T is gone ; the rumbling of its chariot wheels 

Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps ; 

While waves that rolled in music on the shore, 

Lashed into angry surges, foam and break 

In notes of terror on the rocky lee. 

'T is gone, and on its bosom dark and wild, 

The bow of God is hung, in colors bright 

And beautiful as morning's blushing tints, 

When the ark rested on the mountain top, 

And the small remnant of a deluged world 

Looked out upon the wilderness and wept. 



EXERCISE LXXXIII. 
THE LETTER FROM HOME. 

A youthful stranger walked alone 

In a great city's busiest place ; 
He heard not one familiar tone, 

He saw not one familiar face ; 
He trod that long and w T eary street, 

Till day's last beam waxed faint and dim, 
But none were nigh to cheer or greet — 

Not one was there to smile on him. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 205 

He saw before him thickly press 

The rude, the beautiful, the proud; 
And felt that strange, deep loneliness 

Which chills us in the selfish crowd. 
Ay ! though his heart was stern and stro ^ 

And scorned each soft and wailing mood, 
He felt a sore and saddening throng 

Of doubts and wasting cares intrude. 

While yet he mused in bitter thought, 

A messenger appeared at hand, 
Who to that mourning pilgrim brought 

A letter from his own fair land. 
Eager, as if it searched a mine, 

His eye that welcome page explored, 
And as it read each glowing line, 

Hope, gladness, life, were all restored. 

Yet mightier than the voice from home, 

Which nerved that drooping exile's breast, 
Those words of thine, Redeemer, come 

To calm our fears and give us rest : 
When, in some sad and sunless hour, 

We pine for smiles and tones of love, 
They bid us look, through storm and shower, 

To Thee — our Light and Life — above. 



EXERCISE LXXXIV. 
LINES ON THE LOSS OF A SHIP. 

Her mighty sails the breezes swell, 

And fast she leaves the lessening land, 
And from the shore the last farewell 

Is waved by many a snowy hand ; 
And weeping eyes are on the main, 

Until the verge she wanders o'er ; 
But from the hour of parting pain, 

That bark was never heard of more. 

In her was many a mother's joy, 
And love of many a weeping fair ; 

For her was wafted, in its sigh, 

The lonely heart's unceasing prayer. 

18 



206 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

And oh ! the thousand hopes untold 
Of ardent youth that vessel bore : 

Say, were they quenched in waters cold ? 
For she was never heard of more ! 

When on her wide and trackless path 

Of desolation doomed to flee, 
Say, sank she 'midst the blending wrath 

Of racking cloud and rolling sea ? 
Or, where the land but mocks the eye, 

When drifting on a fatal shore ? 
Vain guesses all — her destiny 

Is dark — she ne'er was heard of more ! 

The moon hath twelve times changed her form 

From glowing orb to crescent wan ; 
'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm, 

Since from her port that ship hath gone. 
But ocean keeps its secret well, 

And though we know that all is o'er, 
No eye hath seen, no tongue can tell, 

Her fate — she ne'er was heard of more ! 

Oh ! were her tale of sorrow known, 

'T were something to the broken heart ; 
The pangs of doubt would then be gone, 

And fancy's endless dreams depart : 
It may not be ! — there is no ray 

By which her doom we may explore ; 
We only know she sailed away, 

And ne'er was seen nor heard of more ! 



EXERCISE LXXXV. 
THERE ? S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL. 

What need of all this fuss and strife, 

Each warring with his brother ? 
Why should we, in the crowd of life, 

Keep trampling down each other ? 
Is there no goal that can be won, 

Without a squeeze to gain it ? 
No other way of getting on, 

But scrambling to obtain it ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 207 

O, fellow-men ! have wisdom, then, 
In friendly warning call — 
M Your claims divide — the world is wide ; 
There 's room enough for all." 

What if the swarthy peasant find 

No field for honest labor ? 
He need not idly slop behind, 

To thrust aside his neighbor. 
There is a land with sunny skies 

Where gold for toil is given ; 
Where every brawny hand that tries 

Its strength can grasp a living. 
O, fellow-men ! remember, then, 

Whatever chance befall, 
The world is wide — where those abide 

There 's room enough for all. 

From poisoned air ye breathe in courts, 

And typhus tainted alleys, 
Go forth, and dwell where health resorts, 

In fertile hills and valleys ; 
Where every arm that clears a bough 

Finds plenty in attendance ; — 
Up ! leave your loathsome cities now, 

And toil for independence. 
O, hasten then, from fevered den, 

And lodging cramped and small ; 
The world is wide — in land beside, 

There 's room enough for all. 

In this fair region, far away, 

Will labor find employment — 
A fair day's work, a fair day's pay, 

And toil will earn enjoyment. 
What need, then, of this daily strife, 

Where each wars with his brother ? 
Why need we, through the crowd of life, 

Keep trampling down each other ? 
From rags and crime that distant clime 

Will free the pauper's thrall ; 
Take fortune's side — the world so wide 

Has room enough for all. 



208 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

EXERCISE LXXXVI. 
TO YOUNG STUDENTS. 

Toil on, young student ! thine is not 
The conqueror's laurel crown ; 

No blood is on the shining leaf 
That wreathes thy bright renown. 

Toil on ! beneath no flower-decked mead 

Lies hidden golden ore ; 
And thou must delve Time's deepest caves 

To gather classic lore. 

Thou seest not yet life's many paths, 

With dangers ever rife : 
Thou hear'st not yet the battle's din 

Eise from its field of strife. 

But from the armory of Truth 
Choose out thy weapons keen, 

And keep them bright with daily toil, 
Till comes thy trial-scene. 

As thou hast used thy gifts of youth, 

So wilt thou be repaid, 
When the white blossoms of the grave 

Are on thy temples laid. 



EXERCISE LXXXVII. 
A ROSY CHILD WENT FORTH TO PLAY. 

A rosy child went forth to play. 

In the first flush of hope and pride, 
Where sands in silver beauty lay, 

Made smooth by the retreating tide ; 
And kneeling on the trackless waste, 

Whence ebbed the waters many a mile, 
He raised, in hot and trembling haste, 

Arch, wall, and tower — a goodly pile. 

But when the shades of evening fell, 
Veiling the blue and peaceful deep, 

The tolling of the distant bell 

Called the boy builder home to sleep ; — 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 209 

He passed a long and restless night, 

Dreaming of structures tall and fair ; — 

He came with the returning light, 
And lo, the faithless sands were bare. 

Less wise than that unthinking child 

Are all that breathe of mortal birth, 
Who grasp, with strivings warm and wild, 

The false and fading toys of earth. 
Gold, learning, glory — what are they 

Without the faith that looks on high ? 
The sand forts of a child at play, 

Which are not when the wave goes by. 



EXERCISE LXXXVIIL 
BE KIND. 

Be kind to thy father — for when thou wert young, 

Who loved thee so fondly as he ? 
He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue, 

And joined in thy innocent glee. 
Be kind to thy father — for now he is old, 

His locks intermingled with gray ; 
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold — 

Thy father is passing away. 

Be kind to thy mother — for lo ! on her brow 

May traces of sorrow be seen ; 
Oh, w r ell may'st thou cherish and comfort her now, 

For loving and kind she hath been. 
Remember thy mother — for thee will she pray, 

As long as God giveth her breath ; 
With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way, 

E'en to the dark valley of death. 

Be kind to thy brother — his heart will have dearth, 

If the smile of thy joy be withdrawn ; 
The flowers of feeling will fade at the birth, 

If the dew of affection be gone. 
Be kind to thy brother — wherever you are 

The love of a brother shall be 
An ornament purer and richer by far 

Than pearls from the depths of the sea. 
18* 



210 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Be kind to thy sister — not many may know 

The depth of true sisterly love ; 
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below 

The surface that sparkles above. 
Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours, 

And blessings thy pathway to crown ; 
Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers, 

More precious than wealth or renown. 



EXERCISE LXXXIX. 
SPEAK GENTLY. 

Speak gently ! it is better far 

To rule by love than fear ; 
Speak gently ! let not harsh words mar 

The good we might do here. 
Speak gently ! Love doth whisper low 

The vows that true hearts bind, 
And gently Friendship's accents flow, 

Affection's voice is kind. 

Speak gently to the little child, — 

Its love be sure to gain, — 
Teach it, in accents soft and mild, 

It may not long remain. 
Speak gently to the aged one, 

Grieve not the care-worn heart ; 
The sands of life are nearly run : 

Let such in peace depart. 

Speak gently to the young, for they 

Will have enough to bear ; 
Pass through this life as best they may, 

'T is full of anxious care. 
Speak gently, kindly to the poor, 

Let no harsh tones be heard, 
They have enough they must endure, 

Without an unkind word. 

Speak gently to the erring ; know 
They may have toiled in vain ; 

Perchance unkindness made them so, 
Oh ! win them back again : — 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 211 

Speak gently ! He who gave his life 

To bend man's stubborn will, 
When elements were in fierce strife, 

Said to them, " Peace, be still ! " 
Speak gently ! 't is a little thing 

Dwarfed in the heart's deep well; 
The good, the joy which it may bring 

Eternity shall tell. 



EXERCISE XC. 
life's companions. 

When I set sail on life's young voyage, 

'T was upon a stormy sea ; 
But to cheer me night and day 
Through the perils of the way, 

With me went companions three, — 
Three companions kind and faithful, 

Dearer far than friend or bride ; 
Heedless of the stormy weather, 
Hand in hand they came together, 

Ever smiling at my side. 

One was Health, my lusty comrade, 

Cherry-cheeked, and stout of limb. 
Though my board was scant of cheer, 
And my drink but water clear, 

I was thankful, blessed with him. 
One was mild-eyed Peace of Spirit, 

Who, though storms the welkin swept, 
Waking gave me calm reliance, 
And, though tempests howled defiance, 

Smoothed my pillow when I slept. 

One was Hope, my dearest comrade, 

Never absent from my breast, 
Brightest in the darkest days, 
Kindest in the roughest ways, 

Dearer far than all the rest ; 
And though Wealth, nor Fame, nor Station, 

Journeyed with me o'er the sea, 
Stout of heart, all danger scorning, 
Nought cared I, in life's young morning, 

For their lordly company. 



212 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But, alas ! ere night has darkened, 

I have lost companions twain ; 
And the third, with tearful eyes, 
Worn and wasted, often flies, 

But as oft returns again. 
And, instead of those departed, 

Spectres twain around me flit ; 
Pointing each, with shadowy finger, 
Nightly at my couch they linger, 

Daily at my board they sit. 

Oh, that I so blindly followed 

In the hot pursuits of wealth ! 
Though I 've gained the prize of gold, 
Eyes are dim, and blood is cold, — 

I have lost my comrade, Health. 
Care instead, the withered beldame, 

Steals the enjoyment from my cup — 
Hugs me, that I cannot quit her, 
Makes my choicest morsels bitter, 

Seals the fonts of pleasure up. 

Woe is me that Fame allured me — 

She so false, and I so blind ! 
Sweet her smiles; but in the chase 
I have lost the happy face 

Of my comrade, Peace of Mind ; 
And instead, Remorse, pale phantom ! 

Tracks my feet where'er I go ; 
All the day I see her scowling, 
In my sleep I hear her howling, 

Wildly flitting to and fro. 

Last of all my dear companions, 

Hope ! sweet Hope ! befriend me yet ; 
Do not from my side depart, 
Do not leave my lonely heart, 

All to darkness and regret ! 
Short and sad is now my voyage 

O'er this gloom-encompassed sea ; 
But not cheerless altogether, 
Whatsoe'er the wind and weather, 

Will it seem, if blessed with thee. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 213 

Dim thine eyes are turning earthwards ; 

Shadowy pale and thin thy form. 
Turned to heaven, thine eyes grow bright, 
All thy form expands in light, 

Soft, and beautiful, and warm. 
Look, then, upwards ! lead me heavenwards ! 

Guide me o'er this darkening sea ! 
Pale Eemorse shall fade before me, 
And the gloom shall brighten o'er me, 

If I have a friend in thee, 



EXERCISE XCL 

ART. 

When, from the sacred garden driven, 

Man fled before his Maker's wrath, 
An angel left her place in heaven, 

And crossed the wanderer's sunless path. 
'T was Art ! sweet Art ! New radiance broke 

Where her light foot flew o'er the ground, 
And thus with seraph voice she spoke — 

" The curse a blessing shall be found." 

She led him through the trackless wild, 

Where noontide sunbeam never blazed ; 
The thistle shrank, the harvest smiled, 

And Nature gladdened as she gazed. 
Earth's thousand tribes of living things, 

At Art's command, to him are given ; 
The village grows, the city springs, 

And point their spires of faith to heaven. 

He rends the oak — and bids it ride, 

To guard the shores its beauty graced ; 
He smites the rock — upheaved in pride, 

See towers of strength and domes of taste. 
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal ; 

Fire bears his banner on the wave ; 
He bids the mortal poison heal, 

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. 

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, 

Admiring Beauty's lap to fill ; 
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep, 

And mocks his own Creator's skill. 



214 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

With thoughts that swell his glowing soul, 
He bids the ore illume the page, 

And proudly scorning Time's control, 
Commerces with an unborn age. 

In fields of air he writes his name, 

And treads the chambers of the sky ; 
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame 

That quivers round the throne on high. 
In war renowned, in peace sublime, 

He moves in greatness and in grace ; 
His power, subduing space and time, 

Links realm to realm, and race to race. 



EXERCISE XCII. 

TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, 
While I look upward to thee. It would seem 
As if God poured thee from his " hollow hand," 
And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; — 
And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him 
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, 
" The sound of many waters ; " and had bade 
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. 

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
That hear the question of that voice sublime ? 
O ! what are all the notes that ever rung 
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? 
Yea, what is all the riot man can make, 
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! 
And yet, bold babbler ! what art thou to Him 
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
Above its loftiest mountains ? — A light wave, 
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 



PART III. -DIALOGUES. 



DIALOGUE I. 
PERSEVERANCE. 



Mother. What was it, my dear, you just told your 
sister, in a very discontented voice, that you could not, 
and would not do ? 

Eliza. Something my school-mistress requires of me, 
and which I cannot do. 

Mother. Indeed ! she must be an unreasonable wo- 
man, to require of you what you cannot do. Has she 
ever before required you to do what you really could 
not do ? 

Eliza. Why, no, mother, not very often. 

Mother. Then she has, occasionally? 

Eliza. Yes, I think she has, sometimes. 

Mother. Well, what did you do, when she required 
of you what you could not do ? 

Eliza. I had to try, and try again, till I was almost 
dead with fatigue. 

Mother. And did trying do any good ? 

Eliza. To be sure ; after trying a great while, I made 
out to do it at last. 

Mother. Then, my child, your school-mistress did not 
require of you what you could not do; but only what it 
it was difficult to do; and I dare say, the very difficulty 
did you more good than twenty times as much of what 
you would call easy exercises. You have yet to learn, I 
see, that the conquering of difficulties will alone give 
you strength of mind and invention, and that the more 
easy your task is, the sooner you will forget, it, and the 
less good it will do you. 

Eliza. But, mother, there are some things that are 
not only difficult, but I do not know how to do them. 



216 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Mother, Such as what? 

Eliza, I cannot write composition, and that is what I 
have to do. The great girls at school write about friend- 
ship, and China. I do not know anything about China; 
and I am sure I cannot write about friendship. What 
could I say about friendship, mother ? 

Mother. You need not write about friendship; indeed, 
that is not a proper subject for one of your age ; but you 
can describe to me things which you have seen or of 
which you have heard, and why not put them on paper? 
You can write and spell, you know. I think you might 
compose something about this very China, that your 
school-mistress would be pleased with. 

Eliza. Pray tell me what, mother. 

Mother. Do you not remember the conversation of 
Captain S., who took tea with us last week? 

Eliza. Yes ; I think I do. 

Mother. Well, cannot you tell me what it was; at 
least, some of it ? 

Eliza. I remember his saying that many Chinese 
families lived always on the water, in little boats ; that 
many children were born and brought up without ever 
going upon land ; and I could not help pitying the poor 
little creatures : how they must want their liberty ! 

Mother. Not so much, perhaps, as you suppose; as 
they have never known what it is to run and skip as 
you do over the green fields ; but you may well pity 
them on account of their poor and untaught condition. 

Eliza. I remember, too, that the women in these 
boats take the clothes to wash from vessels that go there; 
and that at the same time they work with their hands 
and their feet : what industrious people they must be ! 

Mother. It would not do, I think, for them to say, 
because a thing was difficult, that they could not do it. 
What else do you remember ? 

Eliza. That the Chinese are very ingenious in imi- 
tating anything they see, but that they do very little 
without a pattern ; that an American captain, from the 
neighborhood of Boston, had his portrait taken in China, 
and that when he sat the last time, he happened to have 
on a coat with a patch on the elbow ; the painter very 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 217 

carefully put the patch on the elbow of the portrait : and 
one thing more I recollect — that the Chinese are very- 
suspicious, and even afraid of foreigners ; and that they 
do not eat with knives and forks — having something 
like a fear of them when brought near the mouth — but 
with something they call chopsticks. 

Mother. Very well my dear; now only write down 
what you have told me, and it will be very proper com- 
position for you. It is not expected that one of your age 
can have thoughts upon such subjects as older people 
write upon; but you must begin by describing such 
things as you have seen, or about which you have heard 
or read; and you will, without intending it, make re- 
marks, as you did just now, about the industry of the 
Chinese, and about their pitiable condition. 

Eliza. I thank you, mother, for making me think 
that I can do something ; I will try to do as you direct 
me. 

Mother. Try sincerely, my dear, and you will find a 
great many things possible, and even easy to be done, 
which you might beforehand think yourself wholly una- 
ble to accomplish. 



DIALOGUE II. 
THE USEFUL AND THE ORNAMENTAL. 

Augusta. Well, Mary; I cannot expect to be like you; 
nature intended that I should be only useful. 

Mary. I should be very sorry, if I thought she had 
not made me for the same purpose. 

A. Oh ! you are above being useful. You were meant 
to be ornamental; and everybody is willing you should 
be so ; for few can make such attainments, and those 
who can are not expected to be useful. 

M. What do you mean by being useful? 

A. Why, I mean fulfilling one's duty in the common 
relations of life. 

M. Well, am I negligent in that particular? 

A. No; I would not say that; but you do not put 
your whole mind into it. 
19 



218 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

M. Why should I, if I have mind enough for that and 
other things too ? 

A. Well, you are more ornamental than useful, at any 
rate. 

M. It seems to me that you strangely limit the term 
useful. I suppose you mean that we are useful, only 
when we are making raiment for the body, or setting the 
house in order, or tending the sick. 

A. Yes ; and visiting the poor, and keeping Sunday 
school. 

M. Well, do you propose doing this last without cul- 
tivation ? Shall the blind lead the blind ? 

A. That requires no knowledge beyond Christian 
morality. 

M. The highest knowledge of all, and to which all 
other attainments are subsidiary ! 

A. Well, but granting that, of what other use, Mary, 
are all your accomplishments ] They make you very 
independent, I know, and much admired by certain per- 
sons ; but then they render insipid other society, in which 
they are not appreciated, and from which you can gain 
nothing ; and what good do they do anybody but your- 
self? 

M. I think they do some good, when they make my 
father and brothers fond of being at home, and talking 
with me. You have often complained that you could 
not make home attractive to your father and brothers, 
and lamented the ennui of the one, and the idle amuse- 
ments of the others. As to its making the sort of soci- 
ety of which you speak insipid to me, I know that 
although you spend so much time in it, it is as disagree- 
able to you as it is wearisome to me. You are always 
bringing me stories of the calumnies which are afloat 
about you and your friends, Now I say, that much of 
this wicked gossipping arises from idleness, and that if 
these people's minds were better furnished, their tongues 
would be less venomous. 

A. But if we can do nothing for this society, ought 
we to withdraw ourselves wholly from it ? 

M. If we cannot raise its tone, I think it may be of 
some use to bear a quiet testimony, that we can find 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 219 

some better way of passing our time than in tasteless, 
childish amusements, the monotony of which is only 
relieved by the most malicious backbiting. 

A. I wish I could think as you do ; but I have always 
been afraid, that if I were highly cultivated, I should not 
be so useful. 

M. If you enlarge your views of utility, you will per- 
haps see that we promote it no less by ministering to the 
spiritual than the temporal wants of others. I cannot 
consider the person who gives me a beautiful thought, 
enriches me with a valuable truth, or leads me to take 
more liberal views of the capacity of the soul or the value 
of time, is less useful to me than that other kind of be- 
ings, who make jellies for me, and watch with me in 
illness, or take me to ride, and entertain me with their 
best cheer, when I am well. Let none of us neglect the 
common duties of our spheres ; but if any hours be left, 
can we devote them better than to acquiring a knowl- 
edge of the laws of God's world, or the minds and his- 
tory of his creatures ? Are we not thus fitted ourselves 
to perform the highest kind of duty towards each other? 
And I do believe that, if we judiciously manage our time 
on earth, short though it be, there will be sufficient to 
enable us to be useful in the highest sense of that term, 
as well as in the sense in which you use it. 



DIALOGUE IE. 
ON PRE-JUDGING. 

Charles. Good-morning, Mr. Barnwell ! 

Mr. Barnioell. Good-morning, Charles ! 

C. Have you heard the news ? 

Mr. B. No, I have not. What 's happened ? 

C. Why, the thief's caught at last. Mr. Parshley 
has taken him up, and I hope he '11 get his dues now. 

Mr, B. What thief are you talking about? You 
speak as if I knew all about the matter. I know of no 
thief. 

C. Why, don't you know Sam Osborn? Every- 



220 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

body says he's a thief; and now that he's caught, I 
suppose there's no doubt about it. 

Mr. B. Who caught him? 

C. Why, T don't mean caught, exactly, but that he 's 
been taken up by Mr. Parshley, for stealing some money 
from him, and he 's going to be tried before Squire Proc- 
tor to-morrow ; but then I'm afraid he'll get clear, as 
his father is rich, and they say he's got Lawyer Town- 
ley to defend his son, and so of course they '11 get him 
off. 

Mr. B. It seems to me you draw your conclusions 
rather hastily. What do you mean by " getting clear," 
and u getting off?" Clear of what? off from what? 

C. Why, from punishment in state's prison, of course. 
He's got a lawyer to save him from justice, and his 
father's rich, and lawyers, you know, will do anything 
for money. I 've no doubt that old Townley would de- 
fend him, if he were taken up for murder. 

Mr. B. But are you not prejudiced against Sam? 

C. Oh, no; not in the least; though I think he's 
rather a bad boy. 

Mr. B. Now, Charles, I -think there is a little preju- 
dice in your case. In speaking of Sam, you call him a 
thief without any hesitation. Now, you must either 
have prejudged him, or else you are informed of all the 
facts in the case. Now, did you see him steal the 
money, or have you heard a candid examination of the 
whole matter? 

C. Why, no ; I neither saw him steal the money, nor 
have I heard the matter examined. 

Mr. B. If your father were accused of stealing, would 
you like to hear people call him a thief, before they 
had heard both sides of the story, and he had been proved 
guilty? 

C. Certainly not. 

Mr. B. Then should you not exercise a little charity 
toward another in a similar case ? 

C. Why, yes ; I suppose I should. 

Mr. B. You say Sam is to be taken before Squire 
Proctor : do you think it at all necessary that this should 
be done ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 221 

C. Oh yes; — he ought to be taken before some mag- 
istrate and be tried, in order to get at the truth. 

Mr. B. Just so ; he 's to be examined, then judged ; 
not judged and then examined. You would not 
think it right to hang a man as soon as he might be 
accused of murder, would you? Who do you think 
would be safe, if punishment so immediately followed 
accusation ? 

C. Well, come to think of it a little, I don't know 
but there would be rather a bad state of things under 
such regulations. I think such hanging would be 
entirely wrong. 

Mr. B. Is it not also wrong to call a man a thief 
before he has been proved to be one, as well as to punish 
him before proved to be guilty ? 

C. I don't know but that it would be; — but, then, 
what does Mr. Osborne want to get a lawyer to defend 
Sam for, if he's not guilty? If he is innocent, he needs 
no defence. 

Mr. B. I think you are hasty again; did you ever 
hear of such a thing as slander ? 

C. Yes, I believe I have. 

Mr. B. What do you understand by slander ? 

C. I should call it an unjust accusation. 

Mr. B. That's it, exactly. Did you ever hear that 
a person was injured by slander — in his business — 
which is the means of his livelihood, and the welfare of 
his family ? 

C. I have, often. 

Mr. B. You recollect the case of Mr. Brewster. You 
know Mr. Williams said he had cheated him out of two 
hundred dollars ; in consequence of which, Brewster's 
customers left him, -—the town's people avoided him, and 
would not have any dealing with him whatever ; and 
all this when, from evidence given in court, it was 
clearly proved that there was not the slightest ground 
for Williams' charge. Now, don't you think Brewster 
did right to prosecute Williams ? 

C. Yes, I do ; he ought to have done it, in justice to 
himself and family, who were suffering unjustly by 
reason of the ignorance and prejudice of the town's 
19* 



222 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

people. Still, if the town's people had not so pre-judged 
him, he would not have so suffered. 

Mr. B. Very true ; but I don't think the town's 
people wholly to blame in the affair. They heard Mr. 
Williams' story, and would have been glad to have 
heard Mr. Brewster's ; but he would say nothing ; he 
stood on his innocence — as if that, unknown, could be 
any safeguard. 

C. But they ought not to have called him guilty 
until he had been proved so by an examination of the 
whole matter; and Mr. Brewster should have defended 
himself against the charge as best he could. 

Mr. B. But I thought you said, just now, in speaking 
of Mr. Osborne's having engaged lawyer Townley to 
defend his son, that innocence needed no defence? 

C So I did, and perhaps I was wrong; but if I had 
said that innocence, when known, needed no defence, I 
should have been right. But I don't see why Osborne 
gets a lawyer to make the defence. 

Mr. B. I will answer your question by asking 
another; or I will propose a question, so that your 
answer to mine will be mine to yours. Why do you 
get a tailor to make your coat ? 

C. Why? Why, because it's his business to make 
coats ; he has learned how to make them, and he can 
make one quicker and better than I can : and it would 
be cheaper to get him to make it, for if I should under- 
take it, I might spoil the cloth. 

Mr. B. The reason why Sam's father gets a lawyer 
to defend Sam is, that it is a part of a lawyer's business 
to defend the accused, and therefore he can do it, as 
you say, quicker and better than either Sam or his 
father; and cheaper too, for by reason of his knowl- 
edge and skill he could readily discover the force of the 
attacks,— know wh#t kind of defence would be neces- 
sary,— easily detect the falsehoods and inconsistencies, 
if any, in the statements of the opposing witnesses, — 
learn the whole truth, both in favor as well as against 
his client, —compel the accuser to prove the truth of his 
accusation, — and see, if Sam is to be punished, that he 
be punished for what he has done, and not for what he 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 223 

has not done ; or, in other words, see that his client is 
justly dealt with ; and that, certainly, is all that even 
his accusers can desire. 

C. Well, I think I shall go to Squire P.'s office to- 
morrow, and hear Sam examined; and if he 's innocent, 
why I hope he'll be declared so. 



DIALOGUE IV. 
THE CURIOUS INSTRUMENT. 

{Father, George, Charles.) 

Father. Well, my boys, I have been to the city, and 
I have brought home, for my own use, a most curious 
and wonderful instrument; one which displays the most 
perfect ingenuity of construction, and beauty of work- 
manship. From its extreme delicacy, it is liable to 
injury, and, in order to protect it, a light curtain, adorned 
with a beautiful fringe, is always provided, and so con- 
trived as to fall instantly on the approach of the slightest 
danger. 

I have said it was beautiful in its external appearance, 
and it is really so ; yet there is a great diversity in the 
different sorts. But the internal construction of all is the 
same, and so curious and wonderful as to excite the 
surprise and admiration of every one who considers it. 

By a slight and sudden movement, which is easily 
effected by the owner, the size, color, shape, weight, and 
value of any article can be ascertained with considerable 
accuracy. Indeed, it is one of the most wonderful and 
useful instruments ever made. 

George. If they are so very useful, I should think 
that every one who can at all afford it would have 
one. 

Father. They are not so uncommon as you may sup- 
pose ; I know of several individuals in this neighborhood 
who own one or two of them. 

Charles. How large is it, father ? could I hold it in 
my hand ? 

Father. It is small enough to hold in your hand ; but 
I should be very sorry to trust mine with you ! 



224 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

George. You will be obliged to take very great care 
of it, then ? 

Father. Indeed, I must. I intend every night to 
enclose it within the small screen I mentioned; and it 
must, besides, occasionally be washed in a certain color- 
less fluid kept for the purpose ; but this is so delicate an 
operation, that persons, I find, are generally reluctant to 
perform it. 

But, notwithstanding the tenderness of this instru- 
ment, you will be surprised to hear that it may be darted 
to a great distance, without the least injury, and without 
any danger of losing it. 

Charles. Indeed ! and how high can you dart it ? 

Father. I should be afraid of telling you to what a 
distance it will reach, lest you should think that I am 
jesting with you. 

George. Higher than this house, I suppose 1 

Father. Much higher. 

Charles. Then how do you get it again ? 

Father. It is easily cast down, by a gentle movement, 
that does it no injury. 

Charles. But who can do this ? 

Father. The person whose business it is to take care 
of it. 

Charles. Well, I cannot understand you at all ; but 
do tell us, father, for what is it chiefly used ? 

Father. Its uses are so various that I know not which 
to specify. It has been found very serviceable in deci- 
phering old manuscripts ; and, indeed, it has been used 
in modern prints. It will assist us greatly in acquiring 
all kinds of knowledge; and without it, some of the 
most sublime parts of creation would have been matters 
of mere conjecture. 

It must be confessed, however, that much depends on 
a proper application of it ; for it is possessed by many 
persons Avho appear to have no adequate sense of its 
value, and who employ it only for the most low and 
common purposes, without even thinking, apparently, 
of the noble uses for which it is designed, or of the 
exquisite gratifications which it is capable of affording. 

It is, indeed, in order to excite in your minds some 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 225 

higher sense of its value than you might otherwise 
entertain, that I am giving you this previous descrip- 
tion. 

George. Well, then, tell us something more about it. 

Father. It is of a very penetrating quality; and can 
often discover secrets which could be detected by no 
other means. It must be owned, however, that it is 
equally prone to reveal them. 

Charles. What ! can it speak, then ? 

Father. It is sometimes said to do so, especially when 
it happens to meet with one of its own species. 

George. Of what color is it ? 

Father. They vary considerably in this respect. 

George. Of what color is yours ? 

Father. I believe, of a darkish color, but, to confess 
the truth, I never saw it in my life. 

Both. Never saw it in your life ! 

Father. No ; nor do I wish to see it ; but I have seen 
a representation of it, which is so exact that my curi- 
osity is quite satisfied. 

George. But why don't you look at the thing itself? 

Father. I should be in danger of losing it, if I did. 

Charles. Then you could buy another. 

Father. No, I believe that I could not prevail on any- 
body to part with such a thing. 

George. Then how did you get this one ? 

Father. I am so fortunate as to be possessed of more 
than one ; but how I got them I really cannot recollect. 

Charles. Not recollect! why, you said that you 
brought them from the city to-night. 

Father. So I did ; I should be very sorry if I had left 
them behind me. 

Charles. Tell, father, do tell us the name of this 
curious instrument. 

Father. It is called — an eye. 



226 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE V. 
THE CALIFORNIA GOLD COUNTRY. 

Mr. Sanguine. {Alone, seated and reading a paper.} 
Here it is again, gold, gold, gold — nothing but Cali- 
fornia gold ! I can't take up a newspaper but the first 
thing I see is all about the gold in California. O ! how- 
rich the people of that country must be ! I really wish 
I was there. Well, why can't I be there ? Why can't 
I have some of the yellow stuff as well as other folks ? 
It can be had for the digging, I suppose. {Rises.) 
Faith, I '11 go ! — yes, I '11 go, and set right about it. 

(E?iter Mr. Prudent.) 

Mr. Prudent. How do you do, Mr. Sanguine ? {shake 
hands;) am glad to see you. Any news to-day ? I see 
you have the paper. 

Mr. S. News, 'Squire Prudent? — yes, news enough 
— glorious news — all about the gold in California. One 
man digs a hundred dollars' worth in a day, another a 
cool thousand, while another picks up ten pounds in 
a single lump; and there is no end to it. I want my 
share, and I've just determined that I will set off and 
dig for it. 

Mr. P. But don't be in haste, friend Sanguine. 
Have you considered the difficulties of such an under- 
taking ? 

Mr. S. No, nor do I wish to. What's the use of 
considering at all about it? I've been pounding on a 
lapstone long enough, and now I'm going to throw 
aside my awl and last, and go to digging gold, just as 
you would dig potatoes. 

Mr. P. Your new occupation may prove to be very 
small potatoes to you, after all, and I advise you to take 
time to think of it. 

Mr. S. Think of it! that's just like you, 'Squire 
Prudent, — you are always taking time to think of it. 
I have been thinking of it. I 've thought how much 
better it is to be washing out a cool hundred dollars of 
yellow gold every day, than it is for me to be here 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 227 

pounding pegs into sole leather for a paper dollar made 
of old rags. 

Mr. P. But have you thought of leaving Peggy and 
the children ? Your good wife would cry her eyes out if 
she thought you was going to leave her. 

Mr. S. Well, let her cry; — she'll laugh enough to 
pay for it by and by, and the children too ; I 'd have 
you to know that I 'm coming back again, and with a 
pretty smart lot of gold too. Then how Peggy's eyes 
will brighten up ! The first thing I '11 do after I get 
home will be to throw all my old crockery and spoons 
out of the window, and make a bonfire of all my best 
furniture. 

Mr. P. Well, what next? 

Mr. S. Why, I'll buy Peggy a thousand dollar 
shawl, and a diamond breastpin worth five hundred. 

Mr. P. But how will your wife's dress correspond 
with your snug little cottage ? 

Mr. S. The snug little cottage? why, I'll make a 
pig-sty of it, and build a better house than you can find 
in Beacon street, I'll assure you. 

Mr. P. What next ? 

Mr. S. {Scratching his head.) Well, let's see — O. 
that confounded old lapstone ! I '11 take a big sledge- 
hammer and break it into a thousand pieces. I '11 pound 
it into grains no bigger than gold dust. 

Mr. P. What will you do with your other tools ? 

Mr. S. Why, I "11 run my awl into the first man that 
dares say I ever was a shoemaker ; and, if he persists in 
it, I will knock him down with my last. 

Mr. P. Before making any further disposal of your 
treasure, would it not be well to look at the difficulties 
of getting it? 

Mr. S. Difficulties again ! I tell you there 's no dif- 
ficulty about it. In the first place, {counts on his jin- 
gersj) there's the gold in California; secondly, there's 
a great deal of it ; thirdly, I 'm going to dig it ; fourthly, 
I '11 bring it home ; and fifthly, I '11 spend it. Is n't that 
good logic ? 

Mr. P. Capital ! — but it may prove false logic, after 
all, for our old friend, Skipper Seago, has just come 



228 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

home from the famous gold region, without a bit of 
gold. 

Mr. S. {Scratching his head, and looking blank.) 
Whew ! whew ! you don't say so. What 's the reason, 
hey? 

Mr. P. Ah ! here he comes now, and he will answer 
for himself. 

(Seago enters.) 

Mr. S. How are you, Captain Seago? {Shake 
hands.) They tell me you are right from the gold 
region. 

Capt. Seago. Yes, and glad enough to get home 
again too, I can tell you. 

Mr. S. Why so? — an't there any gold there? 

Capt. S. Yes, gold enough, and " nothing else/' as 
the saying is. 

Mr. S. Well, what do you want anything else for, if 
there's plenty of gold? Won't that get you all you 
want, and more too, hey? 

Capt. S. May be 'twill here, but it won't in the gold 
country. I left the ship, like a fool, and spent seven 
months in working in the hot sun like a dog, and now 
I've got home without a single shot in the locker, and 
only wish I'd never seen any gold dust. 

Mr. S. How is it that all others do so well ? 

Capt. S. So well, hey ? I tell you, Mr. Sanguine, of 
the eight men who left our ship, I am the only one lucky 
enough to get home at all. 

Mr. S. Are all the others still digging gold ? 

Capt. S. Ah, no ! the poor fellows have all dug their 
own graves long ago. Our captain was sunstruck in 
the Sacramento, while washing gold ; two more died of 
hard work and exposure: one died from the bite of a 
copper-head snake; two were robbed and murdered 
while on their way to the coast with their gold, and the 
last one was lost in the mountains, and died of starva- 
tion. I was lucky enough to reach the coast, after giv- 
ing all my gold to an Indian squaw for nursing me 
while I had the " fever and ague." 

Mr. P. So you see, friend Sanguine, there are diffi- 
culties in your way, after all. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 229 

Mr. S. Yes, and I'll be hanged if I'll go near the 
gold. 

Mr. P. But how is it about the crockery, and the 
spoons, and the thousand dollar shawl, and the grand 
house that you was going to build '? 

Mr. S. Ah ! 'Squire Prudent, I shall never again 
despise the comforts of our snug little cottage, with its 
humble furniture ; and I am proud to say that Peggy has 
got more good sense than her husband, as she values the 
solid blessings of a New England home more than all 
the thousand dollar shawls in the universe. 

Mr. P. I am glad to find you giving your wife credit 
for so much wisdom ; but what are you going to do with 
that confounded old lapstone of yours ? 

Mr. S. The lapstone ! why I am going to keep that 
lapstone, 'Squire Prudent, as my best friend ; and people 
will yet say that Simeon Sanguine is the happiest shoe- 
maker that ever pounded sole leather. The lapstone for 
me, after all. 



DIALOGUE VI. 
TRUE VIRTUE WILL PREVAIL. 

[Dionysius, Pythias, and Damon.) 

Dionysius. Amazing ! What do I see ? It is Pythias 
just arrived. — It is indeed Pythias. I did not think it 
possible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend ! 

Pythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my 
confinement with no other views than to pay to Heaven 
the vows I had made, to settle my family concerns 
according to the rules of justice, and to bid adieu to my 
children, that I might die tranquil and satisfied. 

Dio. But why dost thou return ? Hast thou no fear 
of death] Is it not the character of a madman to seek 
it thus voluntarily ? 

Py. I return to suffer, though I have not deserved 
death. Every principle of honor and goodness forbids 
me to allow my friend to die for me. 

Dio. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself? 

Py. No ; I love him as myself. But I am persuaded 
20 



230 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 






that I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend; 
since it was Pythias whom thou hadst decreed to die. 
It were not just that Damon should suffer, to deliver me 
from the death which was designed, not for him, but for 
me only. 

Dio. But thou supposest that it is as unjust to inflict 
death upon thee as upon thy friend. 

Py. Very true ; we are both perfectly innocent : and 
it is equally unjust to make either of us suffer. 

Dio. Why dost thou, then, assert that it were injustice 
to put him to death, instead of thee ? 

Py. It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death 
either on Damon or on myself; but Pythias were highly 
culpable to let Damon suffer that death which the 
tyrant had prepared for Pythias only. 

Dio. Dost thou, then, return hither, on the day 
appointed, with no other view than to save the life of a 
friend, by losing thy own 1 

Py. I return, in regard to thee, to suffer an act of 
injustice which it is common for tyrants to inflict; and, 
with respect to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing 
him from the danger he incurred by his generosity to me. 

Dio. And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee. 
Didst thou not really fear that Pythias would never 
return ; and that thou wouldst be put to death on his 
account ? 

Da. I was but too well assured that Pythias would 
punctually return ; and that he would be more solicitous 
to keep his promise than to preserve his life. Would to 
Heaven, that his- relations and friends had forcibly 
detained him ! He would then have lived for the com- 
fort and benefit of good men ; and I should have the 
satisfaction of dying for him ! 

Dio. What ! does life displease thee 7 

Da. Yes ; it displeases me when I see and feel the 
power of a tyrant. 

Dio. It is well ! Thou shalt see him no more. I will 
order thee to be put to death immediately. 

Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes 
with his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias 
who was devoted by thee to destruction. I come to 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 231 

submit to it, that I may redeem my friend. Do not 
refuse me this consolation in my last hour. 

Dio. I cannot endure men, who despise death, and 
set my power at defiance. 

Da. Thou canst not, then, endure virtue. 

Dio. No : I cannot endure that proud, disdainful 
virtue, which contemns life, which dreads no punish- 
ment, and which is insensible to the charms of riches 
and pleasure. 

Da. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue which 
is not insensible to the dictates of honor, justice, and 
friendship. 

Dio. Guards, take Pythias to execution ! We shall 
see whether Damon will continue to despise my au- 
thority. 

Da. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy 
pleasure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favor ; 
but I have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself 
to thy power, in order to save him ; be satisfied, then, 
with this sacrifice, and put me to death. 

Py. Hold, Dionysius ! remember, it was Pythias 
alone who offended thee ; Damon could not 

Dio. Alas ! what do I see and hear ! where am I ? 
How miserable ; and how worthy to be so ! I have 
hitherto known nothing of true virtue. I have spent 
my life in darkness and error. All my power and 
honors are insufficient to produce love. I cannot boast 
of having acquired a single friend in the course of a 
reign of thirty years. And yet these two persons, in a 
private condition, love one another tenderly, unre- 
servedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and 
ready to die for each other's preservation. 

Py. How couldst thou, who hast never loved any 
person, expect to have friends ? If thou hadst loved and 
respected men, thou woulust have secured their love and 
respect. Thou hast feared mankind; and they fear 
thee ; they detest thee. 

Dio. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a 
third friend, in a connection so perfect. I give you 
your lives, and I will load you with riches. 

Da. We have no desire to be enriched by thee ; and, 



232 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

in regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy 
it, till thou become good and just. Without these qual- 
ities, thou canst be connected with none but trembling 
slaves, and base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed 
by men of free and generous minds, thou must be virtu- 
ous, affectionate, disinterested, beneficent, — and know 
how to live in a sort of equality with those who share 
and deserve thy friendship. 



DIALOGUE VII. 
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 

Woman. Sir, for the love of God, some small relief 
To a poor woman ! 

Traveller. Whither art thou bound ? 
'T is a late hour to travel o'er these downs ; — 
No house for miles around us, and the way 
Dreary and wild. The evening wind already 
Makes one's teeth chatter ; and the very sun, 
Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, 
Looks cold. 'T will be a bitter night ! 

Woman. Ay, sir, 
'T is cutting keen ! I smart at every breath : — 
Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end ; 
For the way is long before me, and my feet, — 
God help me ! — sore with travelling. I would gladly, 
If it pleased God, at once lie down and die. 

Trav. Nay, nay, cheer up ! a little food and rest 
Will comfort you ; and then your journey's end 
May make amends for all. You shake your head, 
And weep. Is it some mournful business, then, 
That leads you from your home ? 

Woman. Sir, I am going 
To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt 
In the late action, and in the hospital 
Dying, I fear me, now. 

Trav. He may yet live. 
But if the worst should chance, why, you must bear 
The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not 
Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen 
Fighting his country's cause ? and for yourself 
You will not, in unpitied poverty, 
Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 233 

Amid the triumph of her victory, 
Remembers those who paid its price of blood, 
And with a noble charity relieves 
The widow and the orphan. 

Woman. God reward them ! 
God bless them ! It will help me in my age. 
But, sir, it will not pay me for my child ! 

Trav. Was he your only child ? 

Woman. My only one, — 
The stay and comfort of my widowhood ! — 
A dear good boy ! — When first he went to sea, 
I felt what it would come to : — something told me 
I should be childless soon. But tell me, sir, 
If it be true that for a hurt like his 
There is no cure. Please God to spare his life, 
Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful ! 
I can remember there was a blind man 
Lived in our village, — one, from his youth up, 
Quite dark ; — and yet he was a merry man ; 
And he had none to tend on him so well 
As I would tend my boy ! 

Trav. Of this be sure ; 
His hurts are looked to well ; and the best help 
The land affords — as rightly is his due — 
Ever at hand. How happened it he left you ? 
Was a seafaring life his early choice ? 

Woman. No, sir : poor fellow ! — he was wise enough 
To be content at home ; and 't was a home 
As comfortable, sir, even though I say it, 
As any in the country. He was left 
A little boy, when his poor father died, — 
Just old enough to totter by himself, 
And call his mother's name. We two were all, 
And as we were not left quite destitute, 
We bore up well. In the summer time I worked 
Sometimes afield. Then I was famed for knitting, 
And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel 
Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbors too, 
And never felt distress. So he grew up 
A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed. 
I taught him well : there was not in the parish 
A child who said his prayers more regular, 
Or answered readier through his catechism. 
20* 



234 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

If I had foreseen this ! — but 't is a blessing 
We don't know what we 're born to ! 

Trav. But how came it 
He chose to be a sailor ? 

Woman. You shall hear, sir. 
As he grew up, he used to watch the birds 
In the corn, — child's work, you know, and easily done. 
'T is an idle sort of task : so he built up 
A little hut of wicker-work and clay 
tinder the hedge, to shelter him in rain ; 
And then he took, for very idleness, 
To making traps to catch the plunderers, — 
All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, — 
Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, 
Or crush them with its weight, — or else a spring 
Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly; 
And I, poor foolish woman ! I was pleased 
To see the boy so handy. You may guess 
What followed, sir, from this unlucky skill. 
He did what he should not, when he was older. 
I warned him oft enough ; but he was caught 
In wiring hares at last, and had his choice, — 
The prison or the ship. 

Trav. The choice at least 
Was kindly left him ; and for broken laws 
This was, methinks, no heavy punishment. 

Woman. So I was told, sir, and I tried to think so; 
But 't was a sad blow to me. I was used 
To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child : — 
Now, if the wind blew rough, it made me start, 
And think of my poor boy, tossing about 
Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed 
To feel that it was hard to take him from me 
For such a little fault. But he was wrong, 
O, very wrong, — a murrain on his traps ! — 
See what they 've brought him to ! 

Trav. Well ! well ! take comfort. 
He will be taken care of, if he lives ; 
And should you lose your child, this is a country 
Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent 
To weep for him in want. 

Woman. Sir, I shall want 
No succor long. In the common course of years, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 235 



I soon must be at rest ; and 't is a comfort, 
When grief is hard upon me, to reflect 
It only leads me to that rest the sooner. 



DIALOGUE VIII. 
THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL. 

Stranger. Whom are they ushering from the world, with all 
This pageantry and long parade of death ? 

Townsman. A long parade, indeed, sir; and yet here 
You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches 
A furlong further, carriage behind carriage. 

Stran. 'T is but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp 
Tempts me to stand a gazer. 

Towns. Yonder schoolboy, 
Who plays the truant, says the proclamation 
Of peace was nothing to the show, and even 
The chairing of the members at election 
Would not have been a finer sight than this ; 
Only that red and green are prettier colors 
Than all this mourning. There, sir, you behold 
One of the red-gowned worthies of the city, 
The envy and the boast of our exchange, 
Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half million, 
Screwed down in yonder hearse. 

Stran. Then he was born 
Under a lucky planet, who to-day 
Puts mourning on for his inheritance. 

Towns. When first I heard his death, that very wish 
Leapt to my lips ; but now the closing scene 
Of the comedy hath wakened wiser thoughts ; 
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave, 
There will not be the weight of wealth like his 
To sink me down. 

Stran. The camel and the needle, — 
Is that then in your mind ? 

Towns. Even so. The text 
Is gospel wisdom. I would ride the camel, — 
Yea, leap him flying, through the needle's eye, 
As easily as such a pampered soul 
Could pass the narrow gate. 

Stran. Your pardon, sir, 



236 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

But sure this lack of Christian charity- 
Looks not like Christian truth. 

Towns. Your pardon too, sir, 
If, with this text before me, I should feel 
In the preaching mood ! But for these barren fig-trees, 
With all their flourish and their leafiness, 
We have been told their destiny and use, 
When the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
Cumber the earth no longer. 

Stran. Was his wealth 
Stored fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wronged, 
And widows who had none to plead their right ? 

Towns. All honest, open, honorable gains, 
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages, 
Ships to the east and west. 

Stran. Why judge you, then, 
So hardly of the dead ? 

Towns. For what he left 
Undone : — for sins, not one of which is mentioned 
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him, 
Believed no other gods than those of the Creed : 
Bowed to no idols, — but his money-bags : 
Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house : 
Kept the Sabbath idle : built a monument 
To honor his dead father : did no murder : 
Was too old-fashioned for adultery : 
Never picked pockets : never bore false-witness : 
And never, with that all-commanding wealth, 
Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass. 

Stran. You knew him, then, it seems ? 

Towns. As all men know 
The virtues of your hundred-thousanders : 
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. 

Stran. Nay, nay, uncharitable sir ! for often 
Doth bounty like a streamlet flow unseen, 
Freshening and giving life along its course. 

Towns. We track the streamlet by the brighter green 
And livelier growth it gives : — but as for this — 
This was a pool that stagnated and stunk ; 
The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it, 
But slime and foul corruption. 

Stran. Yet even these 
Are reservoirs whence public charity 
Still keeps her channels full. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 237 

Towns. Now, sir, you touch 
Upon the point. This man, of half a million, 
Had all these public virtues which you praise, 
But the poor man rung never at his door ; 
And the old beggar, at the public gate, 
Who, all the summer long, stands, hat in hand, 
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye 
To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
Your benefactors in the newspapers. 
His alms were money put to interest 
In the other world, — donations to keep open 
A running charity-account with Heaven : — 
Retaining fees against the last assizes, 
When, for the trusted talents, strict account 
Shall be required from all, and the old arch-lawyer 
Plead his own cause as plaintiff. 

Stran. I must needs 
Believe you, sir; — these are your witnesses, 
These mourners here, who from their carriages 
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind 
Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes 
Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute 
Bears not a face blanker of all emotion 
Than the old servant of the family ! 
How can this man have lived, that thus his death 
Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief? 

Toions. Who should lament for him, sir, in whose heart 
Love had no place, nor natural charity ? 
The parlor-spaniel, when she heard his step, 
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside 
With creeping pace ; she never raised her eyes 
To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 
Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. 
How could it be but thus ? Arithmetic 
Was the sole science he was ever taught. 
The multiplication-table was his creed, 
His pater-noster, and his decalogue. 
When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed 
The open air and sunshine of the fields, 
To give his blood its natural spring and play, 
He, in a close and dusky counting-house, 
Smoke-dried, and seared, and shrivelled up his heart. 



238 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

So, from the way in which he was trained up, 

His feet departed not; he toiled and moiled, 

Poor muck-worm ! through his three-score years and ten ; 

And when the earth shall now be shovelled on him, 

If that which served him for a soul were still 

Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt. 

Stran. Yet your next newspapers will blazon him 
For industry and honorable wealth 
A bright example. 

Towns. Even half a million 
Gets him no other praise. But come this way 
Some twelve months hence, and you will find his virtues 
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, 
Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids 
Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. 



DIALOGUE IX. 
LESSONS IN ETIQUETTE. 

(Lord Tinsel, and the Earl of Rochdale, a neiv-made nobleman.) 

Tinsel. Believe me, you shall profit by my training ; 
You grow a lord apace. I saw you meet 
A bevy of your former friends, who fain 
Had shaken hands with you. You gave them fingers ! 
You 're now another man. Your house is changed, — 
Your table changed, — your retinue, — your horse, — 
Where once you rode a hack, you now back blood ; — 
Befits it, then, you also change your friends. 

(Enter Williams, an attendant.) 

Williams. A gentleman would see your lordship. 

Tin. Sir, what 's that ? 

Wil. A gentleman would see his lordship. 

Tin. How know you, sir, his lordship is at home ? 
Is he at home because he goes not out ? 
He 's not at home, though there you should see him, sir, 
Unless he certifies that he 's at home ! 
Bring up the name of the gentleman, and then 
Your lord will know if he 's at home or not. 

( Williams leaves.) 
Your man was porter to some merchant's door, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 239 

Who never taught him better breeding 

Than to speak the vulgar truth ! — Well, sir ? 

(To Williams, returning.) 

Wil. His name, 
So please your lordship, Markham ? 

Tin. Do you know 
The thing ? 

Rock. Right well ! P faith, a hearty fellow, 
Son to a worthy tradesman, who would do 
Great things with little means ; so entered him 
In the Temple. A good fellow, on my life, 
Nought smacking of his stock ! 

Tin. You 've said enough ! 
His lordship 's not at home. (Williams leaves.) We do not go 
By hearts, but orders ! Had he family, — 
Blood, — though it were only a drop, — his heart 
Would pass for something, — -lacking such desert, 
Were it ten times the heart it is, 't is nought ! 

(Enter Williams.) 

Wil. One Master Jones hath asked to see your lordship. 

Tin. And what was your reply to Master Jones ? 

Wil. I knew not if his lordship was at home. 

Tin. You '11 do. — Who 5 s Master Jones ? 

Rock. A curate's son. 

Tin. A curate's son ? Better be a yeoman's son ! 
How made you his acquaintance, pray ? 

Rock. We read 
Latin and Greek together. 

Tin. Dropping them, — 
As, now that you 're a lord, of course you 've done, — 
Drop him. — You '11 say his lordship 's not at home 

Wil. So please your lordship, I forgot to say, 
One Richard Cricket likewise is below. [dale ! 

Tin. Who ? Richard Cricket ? You must see him, Roch- 
A noble little fellow ! A great man, sir ! 
Not knowing whom, you would be nobody ! 
I won five thousand pounds by him. 

Rock. Who is he ? 
I never heard of him. 

Tin. What ! never heard 
Of Richard Cricket ! never heard of him ! 
Why, he 's the jockey of Newmarket ; you 



240 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 






May win a cup by him, or else a sweepstakes. 
I bade him call upon you. You must see him. 
His lordship is at home to Eichard Cricket. 

Koch. Bid him wait in the ante-room. 

Tin. The ante-room ! 
The best room in your house ! You do not know 
The use of Richard Cricket ! Show him, sir, [needs 

Into the drawing-room. (Williams leaves.) Your lordship 
Must be upon the turf; and you '11 do well 
To make a friend of Richard Cricket. — Well, sir, 
What 's that ? ( To Williams, returning with a paper.) 

Wil. So please your lordship, a petition. 

Tin. Hadst not a service 'mong the Hottentots 
Ere thou cam'st hither, friend ? Present thy lord 
With a petition ! At mechanics' doors, 
At tradesmen's, shopkeepers', and merchants' only 
Have such things leave to knock ! Make thy lord's gate 
A wicket to the workhouse ! Let us see it — 
Subscriptions to a book of poetry ! 
Who heads the list ? Cornelius Tense, A.M., 
Which means he construes Greek and Latin, works 
Problems in mathematics, can chop logic, 
And is a conjuror in philosophy, 
Both natural and moral. — Pshaw! a man 
Whom nobody, that is anybody, knows. 
Who think you follows him ? Why, an M.D., 
An F.R.S., an F.A.S., and then 
A D.D., Doctor of Divinity, 
Ushering in an LL.D., which means 
Doctor of Laws, — their harmony, no doubt, 
The difference of their trades ! There 's nothing here 
But languages, and sciences, and arts, — 
Not an iota of nobility ! 

We cannot give our names. Take back the paper, 
And tell the bearer there 's no answer for him: — 
That is the lordly way of saying " No." 
But, talking of subscriptions, here is one 
To which your lordship may affix his name. 

Roch. Pray, who 's the object? 

Tin. A most worthy man ! 
A man of singular deserts ; a man 
In serving whom your lordship will serve me, — 
Signor Cantata. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 241 

Rock. He 's a friend of yours ? 

Tin. Oh no, I know him not; I Ve not that pleasure. 
But Lady Dangle knows him ; she 's his friend. 
He will oblige us with a set of concerts, — 
Six concerts to the set. — The set three guineas. 
Your lordship will subscribe ? 

Rock. Oh ! by all means. 

Tin. How many sets of tickets ? Two at least. 
You '11 like to take a friend ? I '11 set you down 
Six guineas to Signor Cantata's concerts ; 
And now, my lord, we '11 to him, — -then we '11 walk. 



DIALOGUE X. 



Duke. 

Judge. 

Shylock, the Jew. 

Antonio, the merchant. 

Bassanio, the merchant's friend. 

Gratiano, " " " 



(E?iter Judge.) 

Duke. You are welcome : take your place. 
Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court ? 

Judge. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

Judge. Is your name Shylock? 

Shylock. Shylock is my name. 

Judge. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow; 
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. — 
You stand within his danger, do you not? (To Antonio.) 

Antonio. Ay, so he says. 

Judge. Do you confess the bond ? 

Ant. I do. 

Judge. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shyl. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 

Judge. The quality of mercy is not strained; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
21 



242 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

'T is mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown ; 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy ; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much, 

To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shyl. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Judge, Is he not able to discharge the money ? 

Bassanio, Yes ; here I tender it for him in the court ; 
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart : 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, 
Wrest once the law to your authority : 
To do a great right, do a little wrong ; 
And curb this cruel demon of his will. 

Judge. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established ; 
'T will be recorded for a precedent ; 
And many an error, by the same example, 
Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 

Shyl. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! — 
O wise young judge, how do I honor thee ! 

Judge. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shyl. Here 't is, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

Judge. Shylock, there 's thrice thy money offered thee. 

Shyl. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven; 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 
No, not for Venice. 

Judge. Why, this bond is forfeit; 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 243 

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful ; 
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 

Shyl. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
It doth appear, you are a worthy judge ; 
You know the law, your exposition 
Hath been most sound : I charge you, by the law, 
Whereof you are a well deserving pillar, 
Proceed to judgment ; by my soul I swear, 
There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me. I stay here on my bond. 

Ant. Most heartily do I beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Judge. Why, then, thus it is. 
You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 

Shyl. O noble judge ! excellent young man ! 

Judge. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty. 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shyl. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 

Judge. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 

Shyl. Ay, his breast : 
So says the bond. Doth it not, noble judge ? — 
Nearest his heart, those are the very words. 

Judge. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh 
The flesh ? 

Shyl. I have them ready. 

Judge. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Shyl. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 

Judge. It is not so expressed ; but what of that ? 
'T were good you do so much for charity. 

Shyl. I cannot find it ; 't is not in the bond. 

.A/, M, 4fe *M- -M- "M- 

•7> W -7f" *7? "75* TT 

We trifle time ; I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Judge. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shyl. Most rightful judge ! 

Judge. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast; 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shyl. Most learned judge ! — A sentence : come, prepare! 

(Approaches Antonio.) 



244 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Judge. Tarry a little; — there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh ; 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. [judge ! 

Gratiano. O upright judge! — Mark, Jew: O learned 

Shyl. Is that the law ? 

Judge. Thyself shalt see the act : 
For, as thou urgest justice, be assured, 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

Gra. O learned judge ! — Mark, Jew ; a learned judge ! 

Shyl. I take this offer, then ; — pay the bond thrice ; 
And let the Christian go. 

Bas. Here is the money. 

Judge. Soft; 
The Jew shall have all justice : — soft ! — no haste ; — 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gra. Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 

Judge. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, 
But just a pound of flesh ; if thou tak'st more, 
Or less, than a just pound, — be it but so much 
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple ; nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, — 
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 

Judge. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. 

Shyl. Give me the principal and let me go. 

Bas. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 

Judge. He hath refused it in the open court ; 
He shall have merely justice and his bond. 

Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shyl. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 

Judge. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril. Tarry, Jew : 
The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 245 



If it be proved against an alien, 
That by direct, or indirect attempts, 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 
Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicament, I say, thou standest : 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke ! 



DIALOGUE XI. 
THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

Lady. 
Why wouldst thou leave me, oh, gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountains is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall ; — 
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture forever streams. 

Boy. 
Oh, green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Through the long, bright hours of the summer day; 
And they find the red cup-moss where they climb ; 
They chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know ; 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! 

Lady. 
Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell! 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,— 
Harps, which the wandering breezes tune, 
And the silvery woodnote of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard. 

Boy. 
My mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree, 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
21* 



246 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

I dreamt last night of that music low, — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! 

Lady. 
Thy mother hath gone from her cares to rest ; 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door ; 
Come with me to the vineyards nigh, 
And we '11 pluck the grapes of the richest dye. 

Boy. 
Is my mother gone from her home away ? 
But I know that my brothers are there at play ; 
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, 
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well : 
Or they launch their boats where the blue streams flow : 
Lady, sweet lady ! oh, let me go ! 

Lady. 
Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fern by the spring's green side, 
And the stream where the fairy barks were tried ; — 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot. 

Boy. 
Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ? — 
But the bird and the blue fly rove o'er it still; 
And the red deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee ; 
The waters leap, and the fresh winds blow, — 
Lady, sweet lady ! oh, let me go ! 



DIALOGUE XII. 

THE BETTER LAND. 

Child. 

I hear thee speak of the better land ; 
Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh where is that radiant shore ? 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 247 

Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 

And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ? 

Mother. 

— Not there, not there, my child ! 

Child. 
Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings, 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? 

Mother. 

— Not there, not there, my child ! 

Child. 
Is it far away, in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold, 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ? 
Is it there, sweet mother ! that better land ? 

Mother. 

— Not there, not there, my child ! 
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep sounds of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair; 
Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom — 
Beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb; 

— It is there, it is there, my child ! 



DIALOGUE XIII 



(Piedro and Francisco.) 

Piedro. This is your morning's work, I presume: 
and you'll make another journey to Naples to-day, on 
the same errand, I warrant, before your father thinks 
you have done enough. 



248 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Francisco. Not before my father thinks I have done 
enough, but before I think so myself. 

P. I do enough to satisfy myself and my father, too, 
without slaving myself after your fashion. Look here; 
{showing money f) all this was had for asking; it 
is no bad thing, you'll allow, to know how to ask for 
money properly. 

P. I should be ashamed to beg or borrow either. 

P. Neither did I get what you see by begging or by 
borrowing either, but by using my wits — not as you 
did yesterday, when, like a novice, you showed the 
bruised side of your melon, and so spoiled your market 
by your wisdom. 

P. Wisdom I think it, still. 

P. And your father? 

P. And my father. 

P. Mine is of a different way of thinking : he always 
tells me, that the buyer has need of a hundred eyes, and 
if one can blind the whole hundred, so much the better. 
You must know, I got off the fish to-day, that my father 
could not sell yesterday, in the market. Got it off for 
fresh, just out of the river — got twice as much as the 
market-price for it ; and from whom, think you? Why, 
from the very booby that would have bought the bruised 
melon for a good one, if you would have let him. 
You'll allow I am no fool, Francisco, and that I am in 
a fair way to grow rich, if I go on as I have begun. 

P. Stay, — you forgot that the booby you took in to- 
day will not be so easily taken in to-morrow. He 
will buy no more fish from you, because he will be 
afraid of your cheating him ; but he will be ready 
enough to buy fruit of me, because he will know I shall 
not cheat him. So you will have lost a customer, and I 
gained one. 

P. With all my heart. One customer does not make 
a market : if he buys no more, what care I ? there are 
people enough to buy fish in Naples. 

F. And do you mean to serve them all in the same 
manner ? 

P. If they will be only so good as to give me leave. 
" Venture a small fish to catch a large one !•" 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 249 

F. You have never considered, then, that all these 
people will, one after another, find you out in time. 

P. Ay, in time ; but it will be some time first : there 
are a great many of them, — enough to last me all sum- 
mer, if I lose a customer a day. 

F. And next summer, what will you do ? 

P. Next summer is not come yet; there is time 
enough to think what I shall do, before next summer 
comes. Why, now, suppose the blockheads, after they 
had been taken in, and found it out, all joined against 
me, and would buy none of our fish, — what then? 
Are there no trades, then, but that of a fisherman ? In 
Naples, are there not a hundred ways of making money 
for a smart lad like me — as my father says? What do 
you think of turning merchant, and selling sugar -plums 
and cakes to the children in their market? Would 
they be hard to deal with, think you ? 

F. I think not. But I think the children would find 
it out in time, if they were cheated, and would like it 
as little as the men. 

P. I don't doubt that: then, in time, I could, you 
know, change my trade, sell chips and sticks in the 
wood-market ; hand about lemonade to the fine folks, or 
twenty other things ; there are trades enough for a man. 

F. Yes, for the honest dealer, but for no other : for, 
in all of them, you'll find, as my father says, that a 
good character is the best fortune to set up with. 
Change your trade ever so often, you'll be found out for 
what you are, at last. 

P. And what am I, pray ? The whole truth of the 
matter is, that you envy my good luck, and can't bear 
to hear this money jingle in my hand. "It's better to 
be lucky than wise," as my father says. Good-morn- 
ing to you ; when I am found out for what I am, or 
when the worst comes to the worst, I can drive a stupid 
donkey with his panniers filled with rubbish, as well as 
you do now, honest Francisco ! 

F. Not quite so well ; unless you were honest Fran- 
cisco, you would not fill his panniers quite so readily. 



250 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

DIALOGUE XIV. 



(Orlando and Jaques.) 

Jaques. I thank you for your company ; but, good 
faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. 

Orlando. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion's sake, I 
thank you, too, for your society. 

J. God be with you ; let's meet as little as we can. 

O. I do desire we may be better strangers. 

J. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love- 
songs in their barks. 

O. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with read- 
ing them ill-fa voredly. 

J. Rosalind is your love's name? 

O. Yes; just. 

J. I do not like her name. 

O. There was no thought of pleasing you, when she 
was christened. 

J. What stature is she of? 

O. Just as high as my heart. 

J. You are full of pretty answers: have you not 
been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned 
them out of rings? 

O. Not so ; but I answer you right painted cloth, 
from whence you have studied your questions. 

J. You have a nimble wit ; I think it was made of 
Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and we 
two will rail against our mistress, the world, and all our 
misery. 

O. I will chide no brother in the world but myself; 
against whom I know most faults. 

J. The worst fault you have is to be in love. 

O. 'T is a fault I will not change for your best vir- 
tue. I am weary of you. 

J. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I 
found you. 

O. He is drowned in the brook ; look but in and you 
shall see him. 

J. There shall I see mine own figure. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 251 

O. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. 

J. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Sig- 
nior Love. {Exit Jaques.) 

O. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Mon- 
sieur Melancholy. 



DIALOGUE XV. 
FORTUNE-TELLING. 

Sophronia. Come, girls, let us go and have our for- 
tunes told. 

Eveline. Oh ! I should like it of all things ; where 
shall we go ? 

Sai^ah. Let us go to old Kate Merrill's. They say 
she can read the future, as well as we do the past, by 
hand, tea-cups, or cards. Come, Mary Ann. 

Mary Ann. Excuse me, girls, if I do not go with 
you. I do not think it is right to have our fortunes 
told. 

Soph. Not right? Why not? 

M. A. Because, if it had been best for us to know the 
future, I think God would have revealed it to us. 

Sa. Oh, but you know this is only for amusement. 

E. Of course, we shall not believe a word she says. 

M. A. If it is only for amusement, I think we can 
find others far more rational and innocent. But depend 
upon it. girls, you would not wish to go, if there were 
not in your minds a little of credulous feeling. 

Soph. Well, I am sure I am not credulous. 

M. A. Do not be offended, Sophronia : I only meant 
that we are all of us more inclined to believe these 
things than we at first imagine. 

Sa. I think that Mary Ann is right in this respect. 
I am sure I would not go if I did not think her predic- 
tions would come to pass. 

M. A. Certainly ; I could not suppose you would 
spend your time and money to hear an old woman tell 
you things you did not believe. 

E. Well, I am sure I do not see any harm in having 
a little fun once in a while. 



252 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Soph. No ; and I think it is very unkind in Mary Ann, 
to spoil our pleasures by her whims. She is always 
preaching to us about giving up our own way for the 
comfort of others, and I think she ought to give up now, 
and go with us. 

Sa. Now, really, Sophronia, I think you are the one 
that is unkind. If Mary Ann is wrong, it is better to 
convince her of it kindly, and I am sure she will ac- 
knowledge it. 

M. A. I hope I should be willing to give up a mere 
whim for the pleasure of those I love so well. But this 
is not a whim ; it is a serious conviction of duty. 

Soph. Well, I thought you always pretended to be 
very obliging. 

M. A. I have no right to be obliging at the expense 
of what I deem duty. Our own inclinations we should 
often sacrifice; our prejudices always, but our sense of 
duty never. 

E. I think, girls, we have done wrong to urge Mary 
Ann to go, after she had told us her reasons. 

Soph. Well, then, don't spend any more time in urging 
her to go, against her will. You know the old proverb, 
— " The least said is soonest mended." 

E. Well, do not let us go away angry or ill-natured. 
You asked Mary Ann to say why she thought it was 
wrong, and Ave should receive her reasons kindly. 

Sa. So I think ; but I wish she would tell us what 
harm she thinks it would do us to go. 

M. A. Well, girls, I think, by trying to look into the 
future, we are apt to grow discontented and restless, and 
to forget that we have duties to perform in the present. 
Then, if we do not believe in it, it is a waste of time 
and money, which might be better employed in reliev- 
ing the sufferings of the poor around us. But the great- 
est evil of all is, that we should believe even a part; — 
she would, of course, tell us many little circumstances, 
which would be true of any one ; thus we might be 
led to believe all she said ; the prediction would, prob- 
ably, work out its own fulfilment, and, perhaps, render 
us miserable for life. 

Soph. Oh, fudge ! Mary Ann. This is altogether too 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 253 

bad and ungenerous in you. In the first place, the few- 
cents we give, bestowed as they are on a poor old widow 
woman, are not wasted, in my opinion, but well spent ; 
and if I spend an evening granted me, by my father and 
mother, for recreation, in listening to Old Kate, it is no 
more wasted than if I spend it with the girls in any 
other social way. And when you connect fortune-tell- 
ing and our duties in'the present, you make it too seri- 
ous an affair. Remember, this is all for sport. 

M. A. It may be so with you, Sophronia ; but there 
are those who seriously believe every word of a fortune- 
teller, and actually live more in the unseen but expected 
events of the future, than in faithfully performing their 
duties in the present. This is true, Sophronia. The 
contentment and peace of many young minds have been 
utterly lost — sold for the absurd jabbering of old, igno- 
rant, low-bred women, who pretend to read the future. 
In a livelier tone of voice: But just say, girls, do you 
believe there is any connection between tea-leaves and 
your future lives ? 

All Why, no ! 

M. A. Do you believe God has marked the fortunes 
of thousands of his creatures on the face of cards? 

All Certainly not. 

M. A. Well, do you believe, if God should intrust the 
secret events of the future with any of our race, in this 
age, it would be with those who have neither intel- 
lectual, moral, nor religious education, — who can be 
bribed by dollars and cents to say anything? 

Sa.. E. No, indeed ! 

M. A. Turns to Sophro?iia. You do not answer, 
Sophronia. Let me ask you one or two more questions. 
Do you suppose Kate Merrill believes that she has a 
revelation from God ? 

Soph. No, Mary Ann. 

M. A. Do you suppose she thinks you believe so? 

Soph. Why, yes, I do. 

M. A. Then is it benevolent to bestow money to en- 
courage an old woman in telling for truth what she 
knows to be false ? 

Soph. I doubt whether it is really benevolent. 
22 



254 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

M. A. And if Old Kate speaks falsely, and knows she 
does so, and you know it, yet spend your time in listen- 
ing to what she has to say, what good can come of it to 
head or heart ? 

Soph. None at all, Mary Ann. It is time wasted ; and 
I am convinced that I have been doubly wrong in wish- 
ing to go, and in being angry with you. Will you for- 
give me? 

M. A. Certainly, Sophronia. And now, if you wish 
for amusement, I will be a witch myself, and tell your 
fortunes for you. 

Soph. Oh, do tell mine ; and be sure 3^-ou tell it truly. 
What lines of fate do you see in my hand ? 

M. A. ( Takes her hand and looks at it intently.) 
{To Sophronia :) 
Passions strong my art doth see, — 
Thou must rule them, or they rule thee ; 
In the first, you peace will know ; 
In the last, woe followeth woe. 

Sa. Now tell mine next. 

{To Sarah:) 

Too believing, too believing, 
Thou hast learned not of deceiving; 
Closely scan what seemeth fair, 
And of flattering words beware. 

E. Now tell me a pleasant fortune, Mary Ann. 
( To Eveline :) 
Lively and loving, I would not chide thee ; 
Do thou thy duty, and joy shall betide thee. 

Soph. Thank you, Mary Ann, for the lessons you 
have given us. We can now, in turn, tell your fortune, 
and that is, — Always be amiable and sensible, as now, 
and you will always be loved. 



DIALOGUE XVI. 
ABOUT SCHOOL. 



George. Well, James, have you no school to-day ? 
James. No, there is no school for me. unless I find a 
11 school of fish.' ' 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 255 

G. Then will you go with me and see our new 
teacher, and see how pleasantly we get along? 

J. Not I; you don't catch me going to school when 
I can stay at home, I tell you. 

G. Why so? don't you like to go to school ? 

J. No ; I wish there was no such word as school ; 1 
hate the very sound of it. 

G. Do your parents know you stay away so often ? 

JF. Do they know it ? Why, do you think I let them 
know everything I do ? 

G. Certainly ; you ought not to do anything against 
their wishes. You know how hard your parents try to 
have you get a good education, and when they send 
you to school, how can you play truant? Perhaps you 
think they will know nothing about it; and possibly 
they never may. But remember, James, that there is 
one who sees you, and that is God. When you are 
tempted to do wrong, consider long enough to say, — 
" Thou God seest me." 

J. I want none of your preaching, nor do I care for 
what my parents think or wish. I can take care of 
myself yet, I assure you. 

G. But just consider how much you owe your par- 
ents. They do all they can for you, and desire noth- 
ing so much as your good, and your happiness. Do 
reflect before you decide to cause them pain. 

J. You can talk as much as you please, but it won't 
do me any good; so you may as well march along. 

G. Well then, I will not stay to talk to you any more. 
I only hope that you may yet be wise for yourself. 
Good-by. (Exit.) 

{John enters.) 

J. Good-morning, John ; I am glad to see you. That 
George Wilson has been here preaching to me about 
going to school, and he thinks it is very wicked for us 
not to ask our parents if we can stay at home. He 
says if we go on playing truant we shall surely suffer, 
sooner or later ; and if we neglect our privileges now we 
shall be sorry when we become men. I treated him 
coldly, and told him his preaching would not do me 



256 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

any good; so he said "Good-by," and went trotting 
off to school, I suppose. 

Jn. Well, James, do you not think George intended 
to do you good? Was not his advice good? And 
would you not be all the happier if you would do just 
as he wished you to do ? I am inclined to think that if 
we wish to be happy and useful we must go to school, 
obey our parents, and try to do right in all respects. 

J. Why, John, what's the matter with you? You 
seem to be mighty scrupulous, all at once, — I think 
George must have made a convert of you. 

Jn. George has not been talking to me, nor have I 
seen him recently. But I am fully convinced that the 
only way to happiness and usefulness is in doing right 
in all things ; and I am resolved, henceforth, to abandon 
all wrong ways. You and I, James, have often been 
disobedient and truant boys ; and I entreat you to reflect 
before you do wrong again. Let us both see how much 
we can henceforth do to make our school a useful and 
happy one. 

J. Well, John, I feel that I have done wrong, and I 
mean to try to correct all bad habits and to be good, 
useful, and happy. 

Jn. I hope, from this hour, we may be more virtu- 
ous, more obedient in every respect, more worthy mem- 
bers of school and of society. - If we are so we shall 
ever look back to this moment as one of the happiest of 
our lives. 



DIALOGUE XVII. 
DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENT. 

{Doctor seated at a table, and Patient enters.) 

Patient. Good-morning, doctor. I have called to 
consult you respecting some complaints with which I 
have been troubled for some time. 

Doctor. Please be seated, sir ; it will afford me pleas- 
ure if 1 can be of any service to you. What are some 
of the complaints to which you allude ? 

P. Well, I can hardly describe them to you. I feel 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 257 

heavy and languid much of the time, and frequently 
have a sensation of dizziness, and much of the time an 
unpleasant feeling at my stomach, — a kind of nausea. 

D. In order more fully to understand your case, and 
what it will be necessary for me to do for you, I shall 
wish to ask you a few questions respecting your mode 
of life. What is your occupation ? 

P. I am a lawyer, sir. 

D. What are your habits respecting exercise? Do 
you make it a practice to take a regular and sufficient 
amount of exercise 1 

P. Why, I cannot say that I am very regular in this 
particular. On some days I take a great deal of exer- 
cise, and on others little or none. 

D. I suppose you mean that in one day you some- 
times take enough for a week or month. 

P. Well, I don't know as I should say so exactly, 
but that all the exercise I get for a week or month is 
often taken in a single day. 

D. I understand you. How is your appetite ? 

P. Pretty good, generally, though I am quite a tem- 
perate eater. 

D. At what hour do you breakfast, and what do you 
usually eat, at that time ? 

P. I generally breakfast at about eight o'clock ; and* 
I usually eat two or three warm rolls, three or four 
eggs, a little ham or salmon, and drink three or four 
cups of coffee. 

D. Do you not also eat a piece or two of pie and 
cake, taste of preserves, &c. ? 

P. Why, yes ; but I don't consider them anything. 

D. A very moderate breakfast, surely. How is it 
with your dinner ] 

P. My dinner is usually very simple and plain. It 
consists of a little soup, some fish, a little boiled or 
roasted meat, a piece of turkey or chicken, and a few 
vegetables, followed by some pudding and pies. 

Z>. What is your drink at dinner? 

P. Generally about three glasses of ale and a small 
bottle of cider. 

D. Do you take anything during the afternoon? 
22* 



258 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

P. I usually drink a bottle of porter, and smoke a 
few cigars, and sometimes eat a few crackers with cheese. 

D. A very temperate man, certainly. Of what does 
your supper consist ? 

P. My sappers, doctor, are still more simple. I eat 
a few warm cakes, with some toasted cheese, and a few 
oysters. These, with pie and cake, and three or four 
cups of tea, serve for my supper. 

D. Do you eat anything in the evening? 

P. Nothing of consequence. I sometimes eat a few 
apples, nuts, and raisins, and occasionally, an ice-cream, 
or a few oysters. 

D. At what time do you retire 1 

P. Generally as early as twelve, and sometimes 
earlier. 

D. Do you sleep well ? 

P. Not always. I am frequently troubled with 
dreams ; my sleep is rather disturbed. 

D. What is your practice respecting bathing? Do 
you indulge in frequent ablution? 

P. Why, yes; I bathe, at least, twice every sum- 
mer, and if the weather is quite warm, more than that. 

D. Well, sir, I think I understand your case and the 
cause of your complaints, and I must be plain with 
*you. According to your own account, you pay no 
attention to exercise, and seldom bathe. Then you are 
exceedingly intemperate, both in regard to food and 
drink, and in all respects you are negligent and irregu- 
lar ; except that you are regularly excessive in the 
indulgence of your appetite. The wonder is, that you 
are able to move at all. 

P. Why, doctor, I did not come here to be abused 
and insulted, but to get cured. 

D. I have not abused you, but have only told you 
how you abuse yourself. This I must do before I can 
prescribe for you. 

P. Can you help me, that's the question? 

D. Not unless you will assist me by helping your- 
self. My advice is this: — Be temperate in all things, 
take exercise regularly and cheerfully, bathe often, and 
do all the good you can. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 259 

P. Just such advice as I might have expected from 
you, and just such advice as I shall not regard ; it is 
worthless! 

D. Of course, you will do as you think best, but this 
I must say, that unless you thoroughly change your 
mode of life your time on earth will be short. 

P. Good-day, doctor ; the world is full of humbugs : 
and if things go on as they have done, a man will soon 
be obliged to spend half his time in a bath, and live on 
air and sawdust. I go for temperance, but not for star- 
vation ; for cleanliness, but not for water-soaking. 



DIALOGUE XVIII. 

Dumps. {Alone.} Well, here I am — only fifty dollars 
in my pocket, and the lowest price of a passage to Califor- 
nia is one hundred and twenty-five. I should not mind 
the rains and rattlesnakes at the Isthmus, or a winter 
passage round the Cape, or even a friendly social-starva- 
tion party by the way of Santa Fe, where the Indians are 
in the habit of officiating in the double capacity of field- 
drivers and overseers of the poor. But these gold stories 

— eighteen dollars an ounce — six or eight ounces a day 

— and no getting there, — that's what troubles me! — 
Ah ! here comes Handy. If I only had that fellow's as- 
surance, or one half of his talents, I'd soon get the pas- 
sage-money. 

{Enter Handy,) 

Good-morning, Mr. Handy ! 

Handy. How are you, my old boy ? Why, it seems 
to me you appear rather dumpish this morning ! 

Dnm. I don't know how that is; but my business 
prospects, I confess, are not very encouraging at present. 

Han. Well, that is a pretty good one ! Business 
prospects and the dumps to a young fellow of five-and- 
twenty ! If your pockets are getting light, why don't 
you replenish them, hey ? 

Dum. That is precisely what I was puzzling about; 
but I have not been able to find an opportunity. 



260 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

Han. Suppose you try medicine ? 

Dum. What ! take medicine for an empty pocket ? 

Han. Take medicine ! Nonsense ! Who ever heard 
of a doctor's taking medicine? What I propose is, that 
you turn quack-doctor, if you choose to call it so. Come 
out in the newspapers with an account of some wonder- 
ful discovery, back it up with certificates that go a little 
beyond anything that has ever been heard of, and, aided 
by that doleful countenance of yours, you may soon 
have " a coach and four." 

Dum. A most capital idea ! Now, if you will only 
manage the preliminaries, get the thing fairly under 
way, and then act as a sort of travelling-agent, I shall 
be willing to share the profits with you, and here is 
something to pay expenses. {Hands him a bank bill.) 

Han. Agreed ! I '11 soon have the papers ready. {Exit.) 

Dum. {Alone.) Well, Handy understands how to 
" raise the wind," and no mistake! I was just ready 
to rob somebody, that I might get enough to go to Cali- 
fornia ; but here's a plan which, if well managed, will 
bring me the gold dust, without the labor of digging. I 
shall yet be a rich man, if Handy does but manage well. 
But here he comes, with all things arranged. 

(Reenter Handy, with a bundle of papers.) 

Han. Well, doctor, the certificates are all prepared, 
and to-morrow morning an account of your wonderful 
discovery will appear in the newspapers. Just read these. 

Dum. {Reads a paper from the bundle.) " Doctor 
Von Humboldt most respectfully announces" — Doctor 
Von Humboldt ! who is he, I should like to know? 

Han. Why, you would not have it Dumps, would 
you? — Dr. Dumps ! How would that sound ? 

Dum. Oh! I understand it. {Reads.) " Doctor Von 
Humboldt most respectfully announces to the people of 
this country, that after about thirty years of the most 
profound investigation, he has succeeded in discovering 
the method by which lobsters have, for a great many 
years, been in the habit of renewing such parts of their 
bodies as have suffered amputation in consequence of 
their warlike and pugilistic propensities, and it having 
occurred to the doctor, in the course of his meditations, 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 261 

that their peculiarly ruddy and healthful appearance was 
owing to the effect of this medicine upon the system, he 
has succeeded in concocting a liquid, which is as supe- 
rior to that, in its renovating effects, as is the dazzling 
effulgence which illuminates the intellect of this enlight- 
ened community to the faintest glimmer that ever twin- 
kled in the brain of a lobster. He would beg leave to 
present a few of the many certificates he has received 
since his arrival in America. From a large number 
which have been received, unsolicited, he would call 
the attention of a discriminating public to the follow- 
ing:— 

From the Hon. Peter Abraham, a member of the bar, 
and formerly an alderman. 

"I hereby certify, that I have been, for the last thirty 
years, afflicted with an incurable disorder, which has 
baffled the skill of all our most eminent physicians. I 
have neither been able to sit, stand, nor lie down ; my 
sight and hearing had entirely left me, and, for the last 
three years, all parts of my body were covered over with 
ulcers. In this situation I happened to see an account 
of your wonderful medicine, and hearing that one of my 
neighbors had been cured by a single bottle, I immedi- 
ately called on one of your agents, and the consequence 
is, I am now able to attend to my business as usual. 

" Peter Abraham." 

From William Barkmill, Esq., once a distinguished 
citizen of Albany. 

"I, William Barkmill, do testify and say, that my 
son John, while sitting on a rock near the railroad, 
where he was amusing himself with witnessing the 
labors of the workmen who were blasting rocks, was 
very suddenly blown up into the air with gunpowder, 
and when he came down, which was on the 13th of 
Sept. last, all appearance of humanity was so entirely 
obliterated, that but for a jack-knife which on such 
occasions he was in the habit of carrying in his vest 
pocket, I should not have had the satisfaction of know- 
ing him. 

" Under the circumstances, when even a coroner's jury 
would have found nothing to sit upon, I applied a few 



262 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

drops of your invaluable medicine, when, wonderful to 
relate, he immediately turned somerset over the tan 
vats and lime pits that surrounded him, scampered off 
home, and in about twenty minutes afterwards he was 
splitting wood in the yard as if nothing had happened. 

" Peter Barkmill." 

"This will certify, that I, Joseph Weavel," — What ! 
is that old Drunken Jo ? 

Han. Exactly so ; and he was to have been here be- 
fore now to sign the certificate. He is the only real man I 
have been able to get to begin with. Ah, here he comes ! 

{Enter Weavel.) 

Weavel. ( With a tremulous tone.) Now, Handy, I '11 
just take that half dollar, if you please, and sign the cer- 
tificate. But let me hear you read it first. 

Dum. Certainly. {Reads.) " This will certify, that 
I, Joseph Weavel, was troubled for more than twenty 
years with a weakness in the back and legs, and an 
occasional dizziness, which made me, at times, unable 
to walk about, yet, notwithstanding I set my face against 
all rum measures,' 5 — 

Wea. Stop! stop! I never interfered in that way 
with other people's business. My doctrine is — 

Han. Mr. Weavel, that certificate is literally correct. 
I saw you set your face against a rum measure last night 
in the grocery, and it was not-with-standing, for you 
was so drunk you could not stand. 

Wea. Oh ! now I understand it. Go on. 

Dum. " Notwithstanding I set my face against all rum 
measures, I continued to grow worse, so that for several 
years I could not raise my hand higher than my mouth; 
my face became so much swollen that I could not see ; 
my nose had the color and appearance of a lobster's claw, 
and I was deprived of my rest so much that even my 
neighbors could not sleep at night. Being fortunate 
enough to procure a bottle of your medicine, I had taken 
but a few drops, when my complaints entirely left me, 
and I am, at this time, as well and as good-looking as I 
was at the age of twenty." 

Han. That is all right, I believe, Mr. Weavel. 



THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 263 

Wea. I s'pose so, all 'cepting the getting well. {Signs 
his name.) 

Han. Yes; as you say, it is substantially correct. 
We always add a little, you know, by way of embellish- 
ment. — But, doctor, we shall not be able to read any 
more of these certificates now, for I must be away and 
attend to their publication. They'll take, and no mis- 
take ; or if these do not, we '11 fix some that will. Meet 
me here to-morrow and everything shall be arranged. 



DIALOGUE XIX. 
ON LEAVING SCHOOL. 

Charles. Well, David, I suppose this day may be 
called the last of our school days, and in a short time 
we shall cease to be scholars. How do you feel about 
this? 

David. I must confess, friend Charles, that I cannot 
suppress a feeling of sadness when I reflect that I am 
so soon to leave school, never to return. I have spent 
many a happy hour in this room, and now my only 
regret is that I have not been more diligent, and more 
attentive to the rules of the school, and to the kind 
advice of our teacher. 

C. True, David, we can at this time look back upon 
many little acts that were not altogether right, and we 
cannot help feeling sad. But the past cannot be brought 
back. The future is before us, and it becomes us to be 
faithful in the great school of life in which we must be 
pupils until death. We must either contribute to the 
weal or woe of the community, and it remains for us to 
decide whether our example and influence shall be 
found on the side of virtue and truth, or of vice and 
error. 

D. Yes, and an important question it is for us to 
decide. I begin to feel that it is really a momentous 
thing to live, and my earnest desire is that I may be 
enabled to know and do my duty at all times, and in 
all particulars. Life, as you observe, is a school time, 
and its lessons, if rightly conned, will afford us pleasure 



264 THE AMERICAN SPEAKER. 

here, and prepare us for a future existence. I trust we 
may enter this school with a strong and sincere desire 
to be true to our own best interests, and to those of all 
around us. 

C. Our teacher, you know, has often said that all 
misspent time, or misimproved privileges, would, sooner 
or later, cause us sorrow, but I never felt the force of 
this so truly as now. It seems to me that all the errors 
of my whole school life crowd upon my mind at this 
moment. It is my heart's desire that a retrospective 
view of these errors may incite me to greater fidelity in 
all future life. 

D. I am glad to hear you talk so, friend Charles; I 
think our feelings are much alike, and as we enter upon 
life's busy scenes may we not greatly assist each other? 
I hope we may be true friends in all particulars. 

C. You may be assured that I shall esteem it a priv- 
ilege to consider you my friend, and I promise now that 
I will do all I can to assist you in all your good efforts, 
and I desire that you will be a true friend to me, and 
frankly tell me of all my faults, for which I think I 
shall be truly grateful. Our best friends are those who 
assist us in correcting our errors. 

D. I will certainly try to do what I can for you, and 
I hope we may both succeed in our good endeavors. 
Let us be wise for ourselves, and try so to ljve that the 
world may be the better from our influence and our 
example. 

C. Right, David; and if we do so we shall enjoy 
more true happiness in this world, and, in some degree, 
become prepared for a future existence. May we 
strive to 

" Do good ; shun evil : live not now 

As if at death our being died ; 
Nor Error's siren voice allow 

To draw our steps from truth aside ; 
Look to our journey's end — the grave ! 
And trust in Him whose arm can save." 



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